RY 


HEART  OF  THE  WEST 


HEART  OF 
THE  WEST 


BY 

O.    HENRY 

Author  of  "  The  Four  Million,"  "  The  Voice  of 

the  City,"  "  The  Trimmed  Lamp,"  "  Strictly 

Business,"  "  Whirligigs,"  Etc. 


PUBLISHED  BT 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOR 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 
1915 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 


PS 


CONTEXTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  HEARTS  AND  CROSSES   .      .     ^    M    M    M    »       3 

II.  THE  RANSOM  OF  MACK     .      .,     ..      .      .;     .     21 

III.  TELEMACHUS,  FRIEND  .....,.,.     30 

IV.  THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN 42 

V.  THE  PIMIENTA  PANCAKES        .....      59 

VI.     SEATS  OF  THE  HAUGHTY 74 

VII.     HYGEIA  AT  THE  SOLITO 93 

VIII.  AN  AFTERNOON  MIRACLE        .      .      ..     .,     .114 

IX.     THE  HIGHER  ABDICATION 132 

X.     CUPID  A  LA  CARTE .     .    162 

XI.  THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY     .......    187 

XII.     THE  SPHINX  APPLE ;     .      .  205 

XIII.  THE  MISSING  CHORD 228 

XIV.  A  CALL  LOAN 240 

XV.  THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PUMA     ....   248 

XVI.  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  DRY  VALLEY  JOHN- 
SON  258 

XVII.     CHRISTMAS  BY  INJUNCTION 270 

XVIII.     A  CHAPARRAL  PRINCE 287 

XIX.  THE  REFORMATION  OF  CALLIOPE       .      .      .   301 


HEART  OF  THE  WEST 


I 

HEARTS  AND  CROSSES 

BALDY  WOODS  reached  for  the  bottle,  and  got  it. 
Whenever  Baldy  went  for  anything  he  usually  —  but 
this  is  not  Baldy 's  story.  He  poured  out  a  third 
drink  that  was  larger  by  a  finger  than  the  first  and 
second.  Baldy  was  in  consultation;  and  the  consultee 
is  worthy  of  his  hire. 

"  I'd  be  king  if  I  was  you,"  said  Baldy,  so  posi- 
tively that  his  holster  creaked  and  his  spurs  rattled. 

Webb  Yeager  pushed  back  his  flat-brimmed  Stet- 
son, and  made  further  disorder  in  his  straw-coloured 
hair.  The  tonsorial  recourse  being  without  avail,  he 
followed  the  liquid  example  of  the  more  resourceful 
Baldy. 

"  If  a  man  marries  a  queen,  it  oughtn't  to  make  him 
a  two-spot,"  declared  Webb,  epitomising  his  grievances. 

"  Sure  not,"  said  Baldy,  sympathetic,  still  thirsty, 
and  genuinely  solicitous  concerning  the  relative  value 
of  the  cards.  "  By  rights  you're  a  king.  If  I  was 
you,  I'd  call  for  a  new  deal.  The  cards  have  been 
stacked  on  you  —  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are,  Webb 
Yeager." 

"What?"  asked  Webb,  with  a  hopeful  look  in  his 
pale-blue  eyes. 


4  Heart  of  the  West 

"  You're  a  prince-consort." 

"  Go  easy,"  said  Webb.  "  I  never  blackguarded  you 
none." 

"  It's  a  title,"  explained  Baldy,  "  up  among  the 
picture-cards ;  but  it  don't  take  no  tricks.  I'll  tell  you, 
Webb.  It's  a  brand  they're  got  for  certain  animals 
in  Europe.  Say  that  you  or  me  or  one  of  them  Dutch 
dukes  marries  in  a  royal  family.  Well,  by  and  by  our 
wife  gets  to  be  queen.  Are  we  king?  Not  in  a  million 
years.  At  the  coronation  ceremonies  we  march  between 
little  casino  and  the  Ninth  Grand  Custodian  of  the 
Royal  Hall  Bedchamber.  The  only  use  we  are  is  to 
appear  in  photographs,  and  accept  the  responsibility 
for  the  heir-apparent.  That  ain't  any  square  deal. 
Yes,  sir,  Webb,  you're  a  prince-consort;  and  if  I  was 
you,  I'd  start  a  interregnum  or  a  habeas  corpus  or 
somethin';  and  I'd  be  king  if  I  had  to  turn  from  the 
bottom  of  the  deck." 

Baldy  emptied  his  glass  to  the  ratification  of  his 
Warwick  pose. 

"  Baldy,"  said  Webb,  solemnly,  "  me  and  you  punched 
cows  in  the  same  outfit  for  years.  We  been  runnin'  on 
the  same  range,  and  ridin'  the  same  trails  since  we  was 
boys.  I  wouldn't  talk  about  my  family  affairs  to  no- 
body but  you.  You  was  line-rider  on  the  Nopalito 
Ranch  when  I  married  Santa  McAllister.  I  was  fore- 
man then;  but  what  am  I  now?  I  don't  amount  to  a 
knot  in  a  stake  rope." 

"  When  old  McAllister  was  the  cattle  king  of  West 
Texas,"  continued  Baldy  with  Satanic  sweetness,  "  you 


Hearts  and  Crosses  5 

was  some  tallow.  You  had  as  much  to  say  on  the 
ranch  as  he  did." 

"  I  did,"  admitted  Webb,  "  up  to  the  time  he  found 
out  I  was  tryin'  to  get  my  rope  over  Santa's  head. 
Then  he  kept  me  out  on  the  range  as  far  from  the 
ranch-house  as  he  could.  When  the  old  man  died  they 
commenced  to  call  Santa  the  '  cattle  queen.'  I'm  boss 
of  the  cattle  —  that's  all.  She  'tends  to  all  the  busi- 
ness ;  she  handles  all  the  money ;  I  can't  sell  even  a  beef- 
steer  to  a  party  of  campers,  myself.  Santa's  the 
'  queen  ' ;  and  I'm  Mr.  Nobody." 

*  I'd  be  king  if  I  was  you,"  repeated  Baldy  Woods, 
the  royalist.  "  When  a  man  marries  a  queen  he  ought 
to  grade  up  with  her  —  on  the  hoof  —  dressed  —  dried 
—  corned  —  any  old  way  from  the  chaparral  to  the 
packing-house.  Lots  of  folks  thinks  it's  funny,  Webb, 
that  you  don't  have  the  say-so  on  the  Nopalito.  I 
ain't  reflectin'  none  on  Miz  Yeager  —  she's  the  finest 
little  lady  between  the  Rio  Grande  and  next  Christ- 
mas —  but  a  man  ought  to  be  boss  of  his  own  camp." 

The  smooth,  brown  face  of  Yeager  lengthened  to 
a  mask  of  wounded  melancholy.  With  that  expres- 
sion, and  his  rumpled  yellow  hair  and  guileless  blue 
eyes,  he  might  have  been  likened  to  a  schoolboy  whose 
leadership  had  been  usurped  by  a  youngster  of  su- 
perior strength.  But  his  active  and  sinewy  seventy- 
two  inches,  and  his  girded  revolvers  forbade  the  com- 
parison. 

"  What  was  that  you  called  me,  Baldy?  "  he  asked. 
"What  kind  of  a  concert  was  it?" 


6  Heart  of  the  West 

"  A  *  consort,'  "  corrected  Baldy  — "  a  '  prince-con- 
sort.' It's  a  kind  of  short-card  pseudonym.  You  come 
in  sort  of  between  Jack-high  and  a  four-card  flush." 

Webb  Yeager  sighed,  and  gathered  the  strap  of  his 
Winchester  scabbard  from  the  floor. 

"  I'm  ridin'  back  to  the  ranch  to-day,"  he  said  half- 
heartedly. "  I've  got  to  start  a  bunch  of  beeves  for 
San  Antone  in  the  morning." 

"  I'm  your  company  as  far  as  Dry  Lake,"  announced 
Baldy.  "  I've  got  a  round-up  camp  on  the  San  Marcos 
cuttin'  out  two-year-olds." 

The  two  companeros  mounted  their  ponies  and 
trotted  away  from  the  little  railroad  settlement,  where 
they  had  foregathered  in  the  thirsty  morning. 

At  Dry  Lake,  where  their  routes  diverged,  they  reined 
up  for  a  parting  cigarette.  For  miles  they  had  ridden 
in  silence  save  for  the  soft  drum  of  the  ponies'  hoofs  on 
the  matted  mesquite  grass,  and  the  rattle  of  the  chapar- 
ral against  their  wooden  stirrups.  But  in  Texas  dis- 
course is  seldom  continuous.  You  may  fill  in  a  mile,  a 
meal,  and  a  murder  between  your  paragraphs  without 
detriment  to  your  thesis.  So,  without  apology,  Webb 
offered  an  addendum  to  the  conversation  that  had  begun 
ten  miles  away. 

"You  remember,  yourself,  Baldy,  that  there  .was 
a  time  when  Santa  wasn't  quite  so  independent.  You 
remember  the  days  when  old  McAllister  was  keepin' 
us  apart,  and  how  she  used  to  send  me  the  sign  that 
she  wanted  to  see  me?  Old  man  Mac  promised  to  make 
me  look  like  a  colander  if  I  ever  come  in  gun-shot  of 


Hearts  and  Crosses  7 

the  ranch.  You  remember  the  sign  she  used  to  send, 
Baldy  —  the  heart  with  a  cross  inside  of  it  ?  " 

"  Me  ? "     cried    Baldy,    with    intoxicated    archness. 

"  You  old  sugar-stealing  coyote !  Don't  I  remember  1 
Why,  you  dad-blamed  old  long-horned  turtle-dove,  the 
boys  in  camp  was  all  cognoscious  about  them  hiroglyphs. 
The  '  gizzard-and-crossbones '  we  used  to  call  it.  We 
used  to  see  'em  on  truck  that  was  sent  out  from  the 
ranch.  They  was  marked  in  charcoal  on  the  sacks  of 
flour  and  in  lead-pencil  on  the  newspapers.  I  see  one 
of  'em  once  chalked  on  the  back  of  a  new  cook  that  old 
man  McAllister  sent  out  from  the  ranch  —  danged  if  I 
didn't." 

"  Santa's  father,"  explained  Webb  gently,  "  got  her 
to  promise  that  she  wouldn't  write  to  me  or  send  me  any 
word.  That  heart-and-cross  sign  was  her  scheme. 
Whenever  she  wanted  to  see  me  in  particular  she  man- 
aged to  put  that  mark  on  somethin'  at  the  ranch  that 
she  knew  I'd  see.  And  I  never  laid  eyes  on  it  but  what 
I  burnt  the  wind  for  the  ranch  the  same  night.  I  used 
to  see  her  in  that  coma  mott  back  of  the  little  horse- 
corral." 

4iWe  knowed  it,"  chanted  Baldy;  "but  we  never 
let  on.  We  was  all  for  you.  We  knowed  why  you  al- 
ways kept  that  fast  paint  in  camp.  And  when  we  see 
that  gizzard-and-crossbones  figured  out  on  the  truck 
from  the  ranch  we  knowed  old  Pinto  was  goin'  to  eat 
up  miles  that  night  instead  of  grass.  You  remember 
Scurry  —  that  educated  horse-wrangler  we  had  —  the 
college  fellow  that  tangle-foot  drove  to  the  range? 


8  Heart  of  the  West 

Whenever  Scurry  saw  that  come-meet-your-honey  brand 
on  anything  from  the  ranch,  he'd  wave  his  hand  like 
that,  and  say,  *  Our  friend  Lee  Andrews  will  again  swim 
the  Hell's  point  to-night.'  " 

"  The  last  time  Santa  sent  me  the  sign,"  said  Webb, 
"  was  once  when  she  was  sick.  I  noticed  it  as  soon  as 
I  hit  camp,  and  I  galloped  Pinto  forty  mile  that  night. 
She  wasn't  at  the  coma  mott.  I  went  to  the  house ;  and 
old  McAllister  met  me  at  the  door.  '  Did  you  come  here 
to  get  killed  ?  '  says  he ;  *  I'll  disoblige  you  for  once.  I 
just  started  a  Mexican  to  bring  you.  Santa  wants  you. 
Go  in  that  room  and  see  her.  And  then  come  out  here 
and  see  me.' 

"  Santa  was  lyin'  in  bed  pretty  sick.  But  she  gives 
out  a  kind  of  a  smile,  and  her  hand  and  mine  lock  horns, 
and  I  sets  down  by  the  bed  —  mud  and  spurs  and  chaps 
and  all.  '  I've  heard  you  ridin'  across  the  grass  for 
hours,  Webb,'  she  says.  *  I  was  sure  you'd  come.  You 
saw  the  sign  ?  '  she  whispers.  *  The  minute  I  hit  camp,' 
says  I.  *  'Twas  marked  on  the  bag  of  potatoes  and 
onions.'  '  They're  always  together,'  says  she,  soft  like 
— *  always  together  in  life.'  '  They  go  well  together,' 
I  says,  *  in  a  stew.'  '  I  mean  hearts  and  crosses,'  says 
Santa.  '  Our  sign  —  to  love  and  to  suffer  —  that's 
what  they  mean.' 

"  And  there  was  old  Doc  Musgrove  amusin'  him- 
self with  whisky  and  a  palm-leaf  fan.  And  by  and 
by  Santa  goes  to  sleep;  and  Doc  feels  her  forehead; 
and  he  says  to  me :  6  You're  not  such  a  bad  f ebri' 
fuge.  But  you'd  better  slide  out  now;  for  the  diag- 


Hearts  and  Crosses  9 

nosis  don't  call  for  you  in  regular  doses.     The  little 
lady '11  be  all  right  when  she  wakes  up.' 

"  I  seen  old  McAllister  outside.  '  She's  asleep,'  says 
I.  *  And  now  you  can  start  in  with  your  colander- 
work.  Take  your  time;  for  I  left  my  gun  on  my  sad- 
dle-horn.' 

"  Old  Mac  laughs,  and  he  says  to  me :  6  Pumpin' 
lead  into  the  best  ranch-boss  in  West  Texas  don't 
seem  to  me  good  business  policy.  I  don't  know  where 
I  could  get  as  good  a  one.  It's  the  son-in-law  idea, 
Webb,  that  makes  me  admire  for  to  use  you  as  a 
target.  You  ain't  my  idea  for  a  member  of  the  fam- 
ily. But  I  can  use  you  on  the  Nopalito  if  you'll  keep 
outside  of  a  radius  with  the  ranch-house  in  the  middle 
of  it.  You  go  upstairs  and  lay  down  on  a  cot,  and 
when  you  get  some  sleep  we'll  talk  it  over.' " 

Baldy  Woods  pulled  down  his  hat,  and  uncurled  his 
leg  from  his  saddle-horn.  Webb  shortened  his  rein,  and 
his  pony  danced,  anxious  to  be  off.  The  two  men  shook 
hands  with  Western  ceremony. 

"  Adios,  Baldy,"  said  Webb,  "  I'm  glad  I  seen  you 
and  had  this  talk." 

With  a  pounding  rush  that  sounded  like  the  rise 
of  a  covey  of  quail,  the  riders  sped  away  toward  dif- 
ferent points  of  the  compass.  A  hundred  yards  on  his 
route  Baldy  reined  in  on  the  top  of  a  bare  knoll,  and 
emitted  a  yell.  He  swayed  on  his  horse;  had  he  been 
on  foot,  the  earth  would  have  risen  and  conquered  him; 
but  in  the  saddle  he  was  a  master  of  equilibrium,  and 
laughed  at  whisky,  and  despised  the  centre  of  gravity. 


10  Heart  of  the  West 

Webb  turned  in  his  saddle  at  the  signal. 

"  If  I  was  you,"  came  Baldy's  strident  and  pervert- 
ing tones,  "I'd  be  king!" 

At  eight  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  Bud 
Turner  rolled  from  his  saddle  in  front  of  the  Nopalito 
ranch-house,  and  stumbled  with  whizzing  rowels  toward 
the  gallery.  Bud  was  in  charge  of  the  bunch  of  beef- 
cattle  that  was  to  strike  the  trail  that  morning  for  San 
Antonio.  Mrs.  Yeager  was  on  the  gallery  watering  a 
cluster  of  hyacinths  growing  in  a  red  earthenware  jar. 

"  King,"  McAllister  had  bequeathed  to  his  daugh- 
ter many  of  his  strong  characteristics  —  his  resolution, 
his  gay  courage,  his  contumacious  self-reliance,  his 
pride  as  a  reigning  monarch  of  hoofs  and  horns. 
Allegro  and  fortissimo  had  been  McAllister's  tempo 
and  tone.  In  Santa  they  survived,  transposed  to  the 
feminine  key.  Substantially,  she  preserved  the  image 
of  the  mother  who  had  been  summoned  to  wander  in 
other  and  less  finite  green  pastures  long  before  the 
waxing  herds  of  kine  had  conferred  royalty  upon  the 
house.  She  had  her  mother's  slim,  strong  figure  and 
grave,  soft  prettiness  that  relieved  in  her  the  severity 
of  the  imperious  McAllister  eye  and  the  McAllister  air 
of  royal  independence. 

Webb  stood  on  one  end  of  the  gallery  giving  orders 
to  two  or  three  sub-bosses  of  various  camps  and  outfits 
who  had  ridden  in  for  instructions. 

"  'Morning,"  said  Bud  briefly.  "  Where  do  you  want 
them  beeves  to  go  in  town  —  to  Barber's,  as  usual  ?  " 

Now,  to   answer  that  had  been  the  prerogative  of 


Hearts  and  Crosses  H 

the  queen.  All  the  reins  of  business  —  buying,  selling* 
and  banking  —  had  been  held  by  her  capable  fingers. 
The  handling  of  the  cattle  had  been  intrusted  fully  to 
her  husband.  In  the  days  of  "  King "  McAllister, 
Santa  had  been  his  secretary  and  helper ;  and  she  had 
continued  her  work  with  wisdom  and  profit.  But  be- 
fore she  could  reply,  the  prince-consort  spake  up  with 
calm  decision: 

"  You  drive  that  bunch  to  Zimmerman  and  Nesbit's 
pens.  I  sf)oke  to  Zimmerman  about  it  some  time  ago." 

Bud  turned  on  his  high  boot-heels. 

"  Wait ! "  called  Santa  quickly.  She  looked  at  her 
husband  with  surprise  in  her  steady  grey  eyes. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Webb  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  small  wrinkle  gathering  between  her  brows.  "  I 
never  deal  with  Zimmerman  and  Nesbit.  Barber  has 
handled  every  head  of  stock  from  this  ranch  in  that 
market  for  five  years.  I'm  not  going  to  take  the  busi- 
ness out  of  his  hands."  She  faced  Bud  Turner.  "  De- 
liver those  cattle  to  Barber,"  she  concluded  positively. 

Bud  gazed  impartially  at  the  water- jar  hanging  on 
the  gallery,  stood  on  his  other  leg,  and  chewed  a  mes- 
quite-leaf. 

"  I  want  this  bunch  of  beeves  to  go  to  Zimmerman 
and  Nesbit,"  said  Webb,  with  a  frosty  light  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Santa  impatiently.  "  You'd  bet- 
ter start  on,  Bud,  so  as  to  noon  at  the  Little  Elm  water- 
hole.  Tell  Barber  we'll  have  another  lot  of  culls  ready 
in  about  a  month." 


12  Heart  of  the  West 

Bud  allowed  a  hesitating  eye  to  steal  upward  and 
meet  Webb's.  Webb  saw  apology  in  his  look,  and 
fancied  he  saw  commiseration. 

"  You  deliver  them  cattle,"  he  said  grimly,  "  to  — " 

"  Barber,"  finished  Santa  sharply.  "  Let  that  settle 
it.  Is  there  anything  else  you  are  waiting  for,  Bud?  " 

"  No,  m'm,"  said  Bud.  But  before  going  he  lin- 
gered while  a  cow's  tail  could  have  switched  thrice ;  for 
man  is  man's  ally ;  and  even  the  Philistines  must  have 
blushed  when  they  took  Samson  in  the  way  they  did. 

"  You  hear  your  boss ! "  cried  Webb  sardonically. 
He  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  until  it  touched  the 
floor  before  his  wife. 

"  Webb,"  said  Santa  rebukingly,  "  you're  acting 
mighty  foolish  to-day." 

"  Court  fool,  your  Majesty,"  said  Webb,  in  his  slow 
tones,  which  had  changed  their  quality.  "  What  else 
can  you  expect?  Let  me  tell  you.  I  was  a  man  before 
I  married  a  cattle-queen.  What  am  I  now?  The 
laughing-stock  of  the  camps.  I'll  be  a  man  again." 

Santa  looked  at  him  closely. 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,  Webb,"  she  said  calmly. 
"  You  haven't  been  slighted  in  any  way.  Do  I  ever 
interfere  in  your  management  of  the  cattle?  I  know 
the  business  side  of  the  ranch  much  better  than  you 
do.  I  learned  it  from  Dad.  Be  sensible." 

"  Kingdoms  and  queendoms,"  said  Webb,  "  don't  suit 
me  unless  I  am  in  the  pictures,  too.  I  punch  the  cattle 
and  you  wear  the  crown.  All  right.  I'd  rather  be 
High  Lord  Chancellor  of  a  cow-camp  than  the  eight- 


Hearts  and  Crosses  13 

spot  in  a  queen-high  flush.  It's  your  ranch;  and  Bar- 
ber gets  the  beeves." 

Webb's  horse  was  tied  to  the  rack.  He  walked  into 
the  house  and  brought  out  his  roll  of  blankets  that 
he  never  took  with  him  except  on  long  rides,  and  his 
"  slicker,"  and  his  longest  stake-rope  of  plaited  raw- 
hide. These  he  began  to  tie  deliberately  upon  his 
saddle.  Santa,  a  little  pale,  followed  him. 

Webb  swung  up  into  the  saddle.  His  serious,  smooth 
face  was  without  expression  except  for  a  stubborn  light 
that  smouldered  in  his  eyes. 

"  There's  a  herd  of  cows  and  calves,"  said  he,  "  near 
the  Hondo  Water-hole  on  the  Frio  that  ought  to  be 
moved  away  from  timber.  Lobos  have  killed  three  of 
the  calves.  I  forgot  to  leave  orders.  You'd  better  tell 
Simms  to  attend  to  it." 

Santa  laid  a  hand  on  the  horse's  bridle,  and  looked 
her  husband  in  the  eye. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  Webb  ? "  she  asked 
quietly. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  a  man  again,"  he  answered. 

"  I  wish  you  success  in  a  praiseworthy  attempt," 
she  said,  with  a  sudden  coldness.  She  turned  and 
walked  directly  into  the  house. 

Webb  Yeager  rode  to  the  southeast  as  straight  as 
the  topography  of  West  Texas  permitted.  And  when 
he  reached  the  horizon  he  might  have  ridden  on  into 
blue  space  as  far  as  knowledge  of  him  on  the  Nopa- 
lito  went.  And  the  days,  with  Sundays  at  their  head, 
formed  into  hebdomadal  squads;  and  the  weeks,  cap- 


14  Heart  of  the  West 

tained  by  the  full  moon,  closed  ranks  into  menstrual 
companies  carrying  "  Tempus  f ugit "  on  their  ban- 
ners; and  the  months  marched  on  toward  the  vast 
camp-ground  of  the  years;  but  Webb  Yeager  came  no 
more  to  the  dominions  of  his  queen. 

One  day  a  being  named  Bartholomew,  a  sheep-man  — 
and  therefore  of  little  account  —  from  the  lower  Rio 
Grande  country,  rode  in  sight  of  the  Nopalito  ranch- 
house,  and  felt  hunger  assail  him.  Ex  consuetudine  he 
was  soon  seated  at  the  mid-day  dining-table  of  that 
hospitable  kingdom.  Talk  like  water  gushed  from  him : 
he  might  have  been  smitten  with  Aaron's  rod  —  that  is 
your  gentle  shepherd  when  an  audience  is  vouchsafed 
him  whose  ears  are  not  overgrown  with  wool. 

"  Missis  Yeager,"  he  babbled,  "  I  see  a  man  the  other 
day  on  the  Rancho  Seco  down  in  Hidalgo  County  by 
your  name  —  Webb  Yeager  was  his.  He'd  just  been 
engaged  as  manager.  He  was  a  tall,  light-haired  man, 
not  saying  much.  Maybe  he  was  some  kin  of  yours,  do 
you  think?  " 

"  A  husband,"  said  Santa  cordially.  "  The  Seco  has 
done  well.  Mr.  Yeager  is  one  of  the  best  stockmen 
in  the  West." 

The  dropping  out  of  a  prince-consort  rarely  dis- 
organises a  monarchy.  Queen  Santa  had  appointed  as 
mayor "domo  of  the  ranch  a  trusty  subject,  named 
Ramsay,  who  had  been  one  of  her  father's  faithful  vas- 
sals. And  there  was  scarcely  a  ripple  on  the  Nopalito 
ranch  save  when  the  gulf-breeze  created  undulation^ 
in  the  grass  of  its  wide  acres. 


Hearts  and  Crosses  15 

For  several  years  the  Nopalito  had  been  making 
experiments  with  an  English  breed  of  cattle  that  looked 
down  with  aristocratic  contempt  upon  the  Texas  long- 
horns.  The  experiments  were  found  satisfactory;  and 
a  pasture  had  been  set  apart  for  the  blue-bloods.  The 
fame  of  them  had  gone  forth  into  the  chaparral  and 
pear  as  far  as  men  ride  in  saddles.  Other  ranches  woke 
up,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  looked  with  new  dissatis- 
faction upon  the  long-horns. 

As  a  consequence,  one  day  a  sunburned,  capable, 
silk-kerchiefed  nonchalant  youth,  garnished  with  re- 
volvers, and  attended  by  three  Mexican  vaqueros, 
alighted  at  the  Nopalito  ranch  and  presented  the  fol- 
lowing business-like  epistle  to  the  queen  thereof: 

Mrs.  Yeager  —  The  Nopalito  Ranch: 
DEAR  MADAM: 

I  am  instructed  by  the  owners  of  the  Rancho  Seco  to  purchase 
100  head  of  two  and  three-year-old  cows  of  the  Sussex  breed 
owned  by  you.  If  you  can  fill  the  order  please  deliver  the  cattle 
to  the  bearer;  and  a  check  will  be  forwarded  to  you  at  once. 

Respectfully, 

WEBSTER  YEAGER, 
Manager  the  Rancho  Seco. 

Business  is  business,  even  —  very  scantily  did  it 
escape  being  written  "  especially  " —  in  a  kingdom. 

That  night  the  100  head  of  cattle  were  driven  up 
from  the  pasture  and  penned  in  a  corral  near  the  ranch- 
house  for  delivery  in  the  morning. 

When  night  closed  down  and  the  house  was  still, 
did  Santa  Yeager  throw  herself  down,  clasping  that 
formal  note  to  her  bosom,  weeping,  and  calling  out  a 


16  Heart  of  the  West 

name  that  pride  (either  in  one  or  the  other)  had  kept 
from  her  lips  many  a  day?  Or  did  she  file  the  let- 
ter, in  her  business  way,  retaining  her  royal  balance  and 
strength  ? 

Wonder,  if  you  will ;  but  royalty  is  sacred ;  and  there 
is  a  veil.  But  this  much  you  shall  learn : 

At  midnight  Santa  slipped  softly  out  of  the  ranch- 
house,  clothed  in  something  dark  and  plain.  She  paused 
for  a  moment  under  the  live-oak  trees.  The  prairies 
were  somewhat  dim,  and  the  moonlight  was  pale  orange, 
diluted  with  particles  of  an  impalpable,  flying  mist. 
But  the  mock-bird  whistled  on  every  bough  of  vantage ; 
leagues  of  flowers  scented  the  air ;  and  a  kindergarten  of 
little  shadowy  rabbits  leaped  and  played  in  an  open 
space  near  by.  Santa  turned  her  face  to  the  southeast 
and  threw  three  kisses  thitherward;  for  there  was  none 
to  see. 

Then  she  sped  silently  to  the  blacksmith-shop,  fifty 
yards  away;  and  what  she  did  there  can  only  be  sur- 
mised. But  the  forge  glowed  red ;  and  there  was  a  faint 
hammering  such  as  Cupid  might  make  when  he  sharpens 
his  arrow-points. 

Later  she  came  forth  with  a  queer-shaped,  handled 
thing  in  one  hand,  and  a  portable  furnace,  such  as 
are  seen  in  branding-camps,  in  the  other.  To  the  cor- 
ral where  the  Sussex  cattle  were  penned  she  sped  with 
these  things  swiftly  in  the  moonlight. 

She  opened  the  gate  and  slipped  inside  the  corral. 
The  Sussex  cattle  were  mostly  a  dark  red.  But  among 


Hearts  and  Crosses  17 

this   bunch   was    one   that   was   milky   white  —  notable 
among  the  others. 

And  now  Santa  shook  from  her  shoulder  something 
that  we  had  not  seen  before  —  a  rope  lasso.  She  freed 
the  loop  of  it,  coiling  the  length  in  her  left  hand,  and 
plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  cattle. 

The  white  cow  was  her  object.  She  swung  the  lasso, 
which  caught  one  horn  and  slipped  off.  The  next 
throw  encircled  the  forefeet  and  the  animal  fell  heavily. 
Santa  made  for  it  like  a  panther;  but  it  scrambled  up 
and  dashed  against  her,  knocking  her  over  like  a  blade 
of  grass. 

Again  she  made  the  cast,  while  the  aroused  cattle 
milled  around  the  four  sides  of  the  corral  in  a  plun- 
ging mass.  This  throw  was  fair ;  the  white  cow  came  to 
earth  again;  and  before  it  could  rise  Santa  had  made 
the  lasso  fast  around  a  post  of  the  corral  with  a  swift 
and  simple  knot,  and  had  leaped  upon  the  cow  again 
•with  the  rawhide  hobbles. 

In  one  minute  the  feet  of  the  animal  were  tied  (no 
record-breaking  deed)  and  Santa  leaned  against  the 
corral  for  the  same  space  of  time,  panting  and  lax. 

And  then  she  ran  swiftly  to  her  furnace  at  the  gate 
and  brought  the  branding-iron,  queerly-shaped  and 
white-hot. 

The  bellow  of  the  outraged  white  cow,  as  the  iron 
was  applied,  should  have  stirred  the  slumbering  auric- 
ular nerves  and  consciences  of  the  near-by  subjects 
of  the  Nopalito,  but  it  did  not.  And  it  was  amid  the 


18  Heart  of  the  West 

deepest  nocfurnal  silence  that  Santa  ran  like  a  lap- 
wing back  to  the  ranch-house  and  there  fell  upon  a 
cot  and  sobbed  —  sobbed  as  though  queens  had  hearts 
as  simple  ranchmen's  wives  have,  and  as  though  she 
would  gladly  make  kings  of  prince-consorts,  should 
they  ride  back  again  from  over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

In  the  morning  the  capable,  revolvered  youth  and 
his  vaqueros  set  forth,  driving  the  bunch  of  Sussex 
cattle  across  the  prairies  to  the  Rancho  Seco.  Ninety 
miles  it  was;  a  six  days'  journey,  grazing  and  water- 
ing the  animals  on  the  way. 

The  beasts  arrived  at  Rancho  Seco  one  evening  at 
dusk;  and  were  received  and  counted  by  the  foreman 
of  the  ranch. 

The  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock  a  horseman  loped 
out  of  the  brush  to  the  Nopalito  ranch-house.  He  dis- 
mounted stiffly,  and  strode,  with  whizzing  spurs,  to  the 
house.  His  horse  gave  a  great  sigh  and  swayed  foam- 
streaked,  with  down-drooping  head  and  closed  eyes. 

But  waste  not  your  pity  upon  Belshazzar,  the  flea- 
bitten  sorrel.  To-day,  in  Nopalito  horse-pasture  he 
survives,  pampered,  beloved,  unridden,  cherished  rec- 
ord-holder of  long-distance  rides. 

The  horseman  stumbled  into  the  house.  Two  arms 
fell  around  his  neck,  and  someone  cried  out  in  the  voice 
of  woman  and  queen  alike :  "  Webb  —  oh,  Webb !  " 

"  I  was  a  skunk,"  said  Webb  Yeager. 

"  Hush,"  said  Santa,  "  did  you  see  it?  " 

"  I  saw  it,"  said  Webb. 


Hearts  and  Crosses  19 

What  they  meant  God  knows;  and  you  shall  know, 
if  you  rightly  read  the  primer  of  events. 

"  Be  the  cattle-queen,"  said  Webb ;  "  and  overlook 
it  if  you  can.  I  was  a  mangy,  sheep-stealing  coyote." 

"  Hush ! "  said  Santa  again,  laying  her  fingers  upon 
his  mouth.  "  There's  no  queen  here.  Do  you  know 
who  I  am?  I  am  Santa  Yeager,  First  Lady  of  the 
Bedchamber.  Come  here." 

She  dragged  him  from  the  gallery  into  the  room 
to  the  right.  There  stood  a  cradle  with  an  infant  in 
it  —  a  red,  ribald,  unintelligible,  babbling,  beautiful 
infant,  sputtering  at  life  in  an  unseemly  manner. 

"  There's  no  queen  on  this  ranch,"  said  Santa  again. 
"  Look  at  the  king.  He's  got  your  eyes,  Webb.  Down 
on  your  knees  and  look  at  his  Highness." 

But  jingling  rowels  sounded  on  the  gallery,  and 
Bud  Turner  stumbled  there  again  with  the  same  query 
that  he  had  brought,  lacking  a  few  days,  a  year  ago. 

"  'Morning.  Them  beeves  is  just  turned  out  on  the 
trail.  Shall  I  drive  'em  to  Barber's,  or — " 

He  saw  Webb  and  stopped,  open-mouthed. 

"  Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba ! "  shrieked  the  king  in  his 
cradle,  beating  the  air  with  his  fists. 

"  You  hear  your  boss,  Bud,"  said  Webb  Yeager, 
with  a  broad  grin  —  just  as  he  had  said  a  year  ago. 

And  that  is  all,  except  that  when  old  man  Quinn, 
owner  of  the  Rancho  Seco,  went  out  to  look  over  the 
herd  of  Sussex  cattle  that  he  had  bought  from  the 
Nopalito  ranch,  he  asked  his  new  manager: 


20  Heart  of  the  West 

"What's  the  Nopalito  ranch  brand,  Wilson?" 

"  X  Bar  Y,"  said  Wilson. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Quinn.  "  But  look  at  that 
^hite  heifer  there ;  she's  got  another  brand  —  a  heart 
with  a  cross  inside  of  it.  What  brand  is  that?  " 


II 

THE  RANSOM  OF  MACK 

and  old  Mack  Lonsbury,  we  got  out  of  that 
Little  Hide-and-Seek  gold  mine  affair  with  about  $40,- 
000  apiece.  I  say  "  old  "  Mack ;  but  he  wasn't  old. 
Forty-one,  I  should  say;  but  he  always  seemed  old. 

"  Andy,"  he  says  to  me,  "  I'm  tired  of  hustling. 
You  and  me  have  been  working  hard  together  for  three 
years.  Say  we  knock  off  for  a  while,  and  spend  some 
of  this  idle  money  we've  coaxed  our  way." 

"  The  proposition  hits  me  just  right,"  says  I.  "  Let's 
be  nabobs  a  while  and  see  how  it  feels.  What'll  we  do 
• — take  in  the  Niagara  Falls,  or  buck  at  faro?  " 

"  For  a  good  many  years,"  says  Mack,  "  I've  thought 
that  if  I  ever  had  extravagant  money  I'd  rent  a  two- 
room  cabin  somewhere,  hire  a  Chinaman  to  cook,  and 
sit  in  my  stocking  feet  and  read  Buckle's  History  of 
Civilisation." 

"  That  sounds  self-indulgent  and  gratifying  without 
vulgar  ostentation,"  says  I ;  "  and  I  don't  see  how 
money  could  be  better  invested.  Give  me  a  cuckoo  clock 
and  a  Sep  Winner's  Self -Instructor  for  the  Banjo,  and 
I'll  join  you." 

A  week  afterward  me  and  Mack  hits  this  small  town 

of  Pina,  about  thirty  miles  out  from  Denver,  and  finds 

21 


22  Heart  of  the  West 

an  elegant  two-room  house  that  just  suits  us.  We  de- 
posited half-a-peck  of  money  in  the  Pifia  bank  and 
shook  hands  with  every  one  of  the  340  citizens  in  the 
town.  We  brought  along  the  Chinaman  and  the  cuckoo 
clock  and  Buckle  and  the  Instructor  with  us  from  Den- 
ver; and  they  made  the  cabin  seem  like  home  at  once. 

Never  believe  it  when  they  tell  you  riches  don't  bring 
happiness.  If  you  could  have  seen  old  Mack  sitting  in 
his  rocking-chair  with  his  blue-yarn  sock  feet  up  in  the 
window  and  absorbing  in  that  Buckle  stuff  through  his 
specs  you'd  have  seen  a  picture  of  content  that  would 
have  made  Rockefeller  jealous.  And  I  was  learning  to 
pick  out  "  Old  Zip  Coon  "  on  the  banjo,  and  the  cuckoo 
was  on  time  with  his  remarks,  and  Ah  Sing  was  messing 
up  the  atmosphere  with  the  handsomest  smell  of  ham  and 
eggs  that  ever  laid  the  honeysuckle  in  the  shade.  When 
it  got  too  dark  to  make  out  Buckle's  nonsense  and  the 
notes  in  the  Instructor,  me  and  Mack  would  light  our 
pipes  and  talk  about  science  and  pearl  diving  and  sciat- 
ica and  Egypt  and  spelling  and  fish  and  trade-winds  and 
leather  and  gratitude  and  eagles,  and  a  lot  of  subjects 
that  we'd  never  had  time  to  explain  our  sentiments  about 
before. 

One  evening  Mack  spoke  up  and  asked  me  if  I  was 
much  apprised  in  the  habits  and  policies  of  women  folks. 

"  Why,  yes,"  says  I,  in  a  tone  of  voice ;  "  I  know 
*em  from  Alfred  to  Omaha.  The  feminine  nature  and 
similitude,"  says  I,  "  is  as  plain  to  my  sight  as  the 
Rocky  Mountains  is  to  a  blue-eyed  burro.  I'm  onto 
all  their  little  side-steps  and  punctual  discrepancies." 


The  Ransom  of  Mack  23 

"  I  tell  you,  Andy,"  says  Mack,  with  a  kind  of  sigh, 
66 1  never  had  the  least  amount  of  intersection  with  their 
predispositions.  Maybe  I  might  have  had  a  proneness 
in  respect  to  their  vicinity,  but  I  never  took  the  time.  I 
made  my  own  living  since  I  was  fourteen;  and  I  never 
seemed  to  get  my  ratiocinations  equipped  with  the  senti- 
ments usually  depicted  toward  the  sect.  I  sometimes  wish 
I  had,"  says  old  Mack. 

"  They're  an  adverse  study,"  says  I,  "  and  adapted 
to  points  of  view.  Although  they  vary  in  rationale,  I 
have  found  'em  quite  often  obviously  differing  from  each 
other  in  divergences  of  contrast." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  goes  on  Mack,  "  that  a  man  had 
better  take  'em  in  and  secure  his  inspirations  of  the 
sect  when  he's  young  and  so  preordained.  I  let  my; 
chance  go  by;  and  I  guess  I'm  too  old  now  to  go  hop- 
ping into  the  curriculum." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  tells  him.  "  Maybe  you  bet- 
ter credit  yourself  with  a  barrel  of  money  and  a  lot  of 
emancipation  from  a  quantity  of  uncontent.  Still,  I 
don't  regret  my  knowledge  of  'em,"  I  says.  "  It  takes 
a  man  who  understands  the  symptoms  and  by-plays  of 
women-folks  to  take  care  of  himself  in  this  world." 

We  stayed  on  in  Pina  because  we  liked  the  place. 
Some  folks  might  enjoy  their  money  with  noise  and 
rapture  and  locomotion;  but  me  and  Mack  we  had  had 
plenty  of  turmoils  and  hotel  towels.  The  people  were 
friendly;  Ah  Sing  got  the  swing  of  the  grub  we  liked; 
Mack  and  Buckle  were  as  thick  as  two  body-snatchers, 
and  I  was  hitting  out  a  cordial  resemblance  to  u  Buffalo 


24  Heart  of  the  West 

Gals,  Can't  You  Come  Out  To-night,"  on  the  banjo. 

One  day  I  got  a  telegram  from  Speight,  the  man 
that  was  working  a  mine  I  had  an  interest  in  out  in 
New  Mexico.  I  had  to  go  out  there;  and  I  was  gone 
two  months.  I  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  Pifia  and 
enjoy  life  once  more. 

When  I  struck  the  cabin  I  nearly  fainted.  Mack 
was  standing  in  the  door;  and  if  angels  ever  wept, 
I  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  be  smiling  then. 

That  man  was  a  spectacle.  Yes;  he  was  worse; 
he  was  a  spyglass;  he  was  the  great  telescope  in  the 
Lick  Observatory.  He  had  on  a  coat  and  shiny  shoes 
and  a  white  vest  and  a  high  silk  hat;  and  a  geranium 
as  big  as  an  order  of  spinach  was  spiked  onto  his 
front.  And  he  was  smirking  and  warping  his  face  like 
an  infernal  storekeeper  or  a  kid  with  colic. 

"  Hello,  Andy,"  says  Mack,  out  of  his  face.  "  Glad 
to  see  you  back.  Things  have  happened  since  you 
went  away." 

"  I  know  it,"  says  I,  "  and  a  sacrilegious  sight  it 
is.  God  never  made  you  that  way,  Mack  Lonsbury. 
Why  do  you  scarify  His  works  with  this  presumptious 
kind  of  ribaldry?" 

"  Why,  Andy,"  says  he,  "  they've  elected  me  jus- 
tice of  the  peace  since  you  left." 

I  looked  at  Mack  close.  He  was  restless  and  in- 
spired. A  justice  of  the  peace  ought  to  be  disconso- 
late and  assuaged. 

Just  then  a  young  woman  passed  on  the  sidewalk; 
and  I  saw  Mack  kind  of  half  snicker  and  blush,  and 


The  Ransom  of  Mack  25 

then  he  raised  up  his  hat  and  smiled  and  bowed,  and 
she  smiled  and  bowed,  and  went  on  by. 

"  No  hope  for  you,"  says  I,  "  if  you've  got  the  Mary- 
Jane  infirmity  at  your  age.  I  thought  it  wasn't  going 
to  take  on  you.  And  patent  leather  shoes!  All  this 
in  two  little  short  months !  " 

"  I'm  going  to  marry  the  young  lady  who  just  passed 
to-night,"  says  Mack,  in  a  kind  of  a  flutter. 

"  I  forgot  something  at  the  post-office,"  says  I,  and 
walked  away  quick. 

I  overtook  that  young  woman  a  hundred  yards  away. 
I  raised  my  hat  and  told  her  my  name.  She  was  about 
nineteen;  and  young  for  her  age.  She  blushed,  and 
then  looked  at  me  cool,  like  I  was  the  snow  scene  from 
the  "  Two  Orphans." 

"  I  understand  you  are  to  be  married  to-night,"  I 
said. 

"Correct,"  says  she.     "You  got  any  objections?" 

"  Listen,  sissy,"  I  begins. 

"  My  name  is  Miss  Rebosa  Redd,"  says  she  in  a 
pained  way. 

"  I  know  it,"  says  I.  "  Now,  Rebosa,  I'm  old  enough 
to  have  owed  money  to  your  father.  And  that  old, 
specious,  dressed-up,  garbled,  sea-sick  ptomaine  pran- 
cing around  avidiously  like  an  irremediable  turkey  gob- 
bler with  patent  leather  shoes  on  is  my  best  friend. 
Why  did  you  go  and  get  him  invested  in  this  marriage 
business  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  was  the  only  chance  there  was,"  answers 
Miss  Rebosa, 


26  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Nay,"  says  I,  giving  a  sickening  look  of  admi- 
ration at  her  complexion  and  style  of  features ;  "  with 
your  beauty  you  might  pick  any  kind  of  a  man. 
Listen,  Rebosa.  Old  Mack  ain't  the  man  you  want, 
He  was  twenty-two  when  you  was  nee  Reed,  as  the 
papers  say.  This  bursting  into  bloom  won't  last  with 
him.  He's  all  ventilated  with  oldness  and  rectitude 
and  decay.  Old  Mack's  down  with  a  case  of  Indian 
summer.  He  overlooked  his  bet  when  he  was  young; 
and  now  he's  suing  Nature  for  the  interest  on  the 
promissory  note  he  took  from  Cupid  instead  of  the  cash. 
Rebosa,  are  you  bent  on  having  this  marriage  occur?  " 

"  Why,  sure  I  am,"  says  she,  oscillating  the  pansies 
on  her  hat,  "  and  so  is  somebody  else,  I  reckon." 

"  What  time  is  it  to  take  place?  "  I  asks. 

"  At  six  o'clock,"  says  she. 

I  made  up  my  mind  right  away  what  to  do.  I'd 
save  old  Mack  if  I  could.  To  have  a  good,  seasoned, 
ineligible  man  like  that  turn  chicken  for  a  girl  that 
hadn't  quit  eating  slate  pencils  and  buttoning  in  the 
back  was  more  than  I  could  look  on  with  easiness. 

"  Rebosa,"  says  I,  earnest,  drawing  upon  my  dis- 
play of  knowledge  concerning  the  feminine  intuitions 
of  reason  — "  ain't  there  a  young  man  in  Pina  —  a  nice 
young  man  that  you  think  a  heap  of  ?  " 

"  Yep,"  says  Rebosa,  nodding  her  pansies  — "  Sure 
there  is !  What  do  you  think  I  Gracious  !  " 

"  Does  he  like  you?  "  I  asks.  "  How  does  he  stand 
in  the  matter?  " 

"  Crazy,"  says  Rebosa.     "  Ma  has  to  wet  down  the 


The  Ransom  of  Mack  27] 

front  steps  to  keep  him  from  sitting  there  all  the  time. 
But  I  guess  that'll  be  all  over  after  to-night,"  she  winds 
up  with  a  sigh. 

"  Rebosa,"  says  I,  "  you  don't  really  experience  any 
of  this  adoration  called  love  for  old  Mack,  do  you?  " 

"  Lord !  no,"  says  the  girl,  shaking  her  head.  "  1 
think  he's  as  dry  as  a  lava  bed.  The  idea !  " 

"  Who  is  this  young  man  that  you  like,  Rebosa  ?  " 
I  inquires. 

"  It's  Eddie  Bayles,"  says  she.  "  He  clerks  in  Cros- 
by's grocery.  But  he  don't  make  but  thirty-five  a 
month.  Ella  Noakes  was  wild  about  him  once." 

"  Old  Mack  tells  me,"  I  says,  "  that  he's  going  to 
marry  you  at  six  o'clock  this  evening." 

"That's  the  time,"  says  she.  "It's  to  be  at  our 
house." 

"  Rebosa,"  says  I,  "  listen  to  me.  If  Eddie  Bayles 
had  a  thousand  dollars  cash  —  a  thousand  dollars,  mind 
you,  would  buy  him  a  store  of  his  own  —  if  you  and 
Eddie  had  that  much  to  excuse  matrimony  on,  would 
you  consent  to  marry  him  this  evening  at  five  o'clock?  '* 

The  girl  looks  at  me  a  minute;  and  I  can  see  these 
inaudible  cogitations  going  on  inside  of  her,  as  women 
will. 

"A  thousand  dollars?"  says  she.  "Of  course  I 
would." 

"  Come  on,"  says  I.     "  We'll  go  and  see  Eddie." 

We  went  up  to  Crosby's  store  and  called  Eddie  out- 
side. He  looked  to  be  estimable  and  freckled;  and 
he  had  chills  and  fever  when  I  made  my  proposition. 


28  Heart  of  the  West 

"At  five  o'clock?"  says  he,  "for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars 5,  Please  don't  wake  me  up!  Well,  you  are  the 
rich  uncle  retired  from  the  spice  business  in  India! 
I'll  buy  out  old  Crosby  and  run  the  store  myself." 

We  went  inside  and  got  old  man  Crosby  apart  and 
explained  it.  I  wrote  my  check  for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars and  handed  it  to  him.  If  Eddie  and  Rebosa  mar- 
ried each  other  at  five  he  was  to  turn  the  money  over 
to  them. 

And  then  I  gave  'em  my  blessing,  and  went  to  wan- 
der in  the  wildwood  for  a  season.  I  sat  on  a  log  and 
made  cogitations  on  life  and  old  age  and  the  zodiac 
and  the  ways  of  women  and  all  the  disorder  that  goes 
with  a  lifetime.  I  passed  myself  congratulations  that 
I  had  probably  saved  my  old  friend  Mack  from  his 
attack  of  Indian  summer.  I  knew  when  he  got  well  of 
it  and  shed  his  infatuation  and  his  patent  leather  shoes, 
he  would  feel  grateful.  "  To  keep  old  Mack  disin- 
volved,"  thinks  I,  "  from  relapses  like  this,  is  worth 
more  than  a  thousand  dollars."  And  most  of  all  I  was 
glad  that  I'd  made  a  study  of  women,  and  wasn't  to  be 
deceived  any  by  their  means  of  conceit  and  evolution. 

It  must  have  been  half-past  five  when  I  got  back 
home.  I  stepped  in;  and  there  sat  old  Mack  on  the 
back  of  his  neck  in  his  old  clothes  with  his  blue  socks 
on  the  window  and  the  History  of  Civilisation  propped 
up  on  his  knees. 

"  This  don't  look  like  getting  ready  for  a  wedding 
at  six,"  I  says,  to  seem  innocent. 

"  Oh,"  says  Mack,  reaching  for  his  tobacco,  "  that 


The  Ransom  of  Mack  29 

was  postponed  back  to  five  o'clock.  They  sent  me  a 
note  saying  the  hour  had  been  changed.  It's  all  over 
now.  What  made  you  stay  away  so  long,  Andy  ?  " 

"  You  heard  about  the  wedding?  "  I  asks. 

"  I  operated  it,"  says  he.  "  I  told  you  I  was  jus- 
tice of  the  peace.  The  preacher  is  off  East  to  visit 
his  folks,  and  I'm  the  only  one  in  town  that  can  per- 
form the  dispensations  of  marriage.  I  promised 
Eddie  and  Rebosa  a  month  ago  I'd  marry  'em.  He's 
a  busy  lad;  and  he'll  have  a  grocery  of  his  own  some 
day." 

"  He  will,"  says  I. 

"  There  was  lots  of  women  at  the  wedding,"  says 
Mack,  smoking  up.  "  But  I  didn't  seem  to  get  any 
ideas  from  'em.  I  wish  I  was  informed  in  the  struc- 
ture of  their  attainments  like  you  said  you  was." 

"  That  was  two  months  ago,"  says  I,  reaching  up 
for  the  banjo. 


in 

TELEMACHUS,  FRIEND 

RETURNING  from  a  hunting  trip,  I  waited  at  the 
little  town  of  Los  Pinos,  in  New  Mexico,  for  the 
south-bound  train,  which  was  one  hour  late.  I  sat 
on  the  porch  of  the  Summit  House  and  discussed  the 
functions  of  life  with  Telemachus  Hicks,  the  hotel 
proprietor. 

Perceiving  that  personalities  were  not  out  of  order, 
I  asked  him  what  species  of  beast  had  long  ago 
twisted  and  mutilated  his  left  ear.  Being  a  hunter,  I 
was  concerned  in  the  evils  that  may  befall  one  in  the 
pursuit  of  game. 

"That  ear,"  says  Hicks,  "is  the  relic  of  true 
friendship." 

"An  accident?"  I  persisted. 

"  No  friendship  is  an  accident,"  said  Telemachus ; 
and  I  was  silent. 

"  The  only  perfect  case  of  true  friendship  I  ever 
knew,"  went  on  my  host,  "  was  a  cordial  intent  be- 
tween a  Connecticut  man  and  a  monkey.  The  monkey 
climbed  palms  in  Barranquilla  and  threw  down  cocoa- 
nuts  to  the  man.  The  man  sawed  them  in  two  and 
made  dippers,  which  he  sold  for  two  reales  each  and 

bought  rum.     The  monkey  drank  the  milk  of  the  nuts. 

30 


/  Telemachus,  Friend  31 

Through  each  being  satisfied  with  his  own  share  of  the 
graft,  they  lived  like  brothers. 

"But  in  the  case  of  human  beings,  friendship  is  a 
transitory  art,  subject  to  discontinuance  without  fur- 
ther notice. 

"I  had  a  friend  once,  of  the  entitlement  of  Paisley 
Fish,  that  I  imagined  was  sealed  to  me  for  an  endless 
space  of  time.  Side  by  side  for  seven  years  we  had 
mined,  ranched,  sold  patent  churns,  herded  sheep, 
took  photographs  and  other  things,  built  wire  fences, 
and  picked  prunes.  Thinks  I,  neither  homicide  nor 
flattery  nor  riches  nor  sophistry  nor  drink  can  make 
trouble  between  me  and  Paisley  Fish.  We  was  friends 
an  amount  you  could  hardly  guess  at.  We  was 
friends  in  business,  and  we  let  our  amicable  qualities 
lap  over  and  season  our  hours  of  recreation  and 
folly.  We  certainly  had  days  of  Damon  and  nights 
of  Pythias. 

"One  summer  me  and  Paisley  gallops  down  into 
these  San  Andres  mountains  for  the  purpose  of  a 
month's  surcease  and  levity,  dressed  in  the  natural  store 
habiliments  of  man.  We  hit  this  town  of  Los  Piiios, 
which  certainly  was  a  roof-garden  spot  of  the  world, 
and  flowing  with  condensed  milk  and  honey.  It  had 
a  street  or  two,  and  air,  and  hens,  and  a  eating-house; 
and  that  was  enough  for  us. 

"We  strikes  the  town  after  supper-time,  and  we 
concludes  to  sample  whatever  efficacy  there  is  in  this 
eating-house  down  by  the  railroad  tracks.  By  the 
time  we  had  set  down  and  pried  up  our  plates 


32  Heart  of  the  West 

with    a   knife   from    the   red    oil-cloth,    along    intrudes 
Widow  Jessup  with  the  hot  biscuit  and  the  fried  liver. 

"Now,  there  was  a  woman  that  would  have  tempted 
an  anchovy  to  forget  his  vows.  She  was  not  so  small 
as  she  was  large;  and  a  kind  of  welcome  air  seemed 
to  mitigate  her  vicinity.  The  pink  of  her  face  was 
the  in  hoc  signo  of  a  culinary  temper  and  a  warm  dis- 
position, and  her  smile  would  have  brought  out  the  dog- 
wood blossoms  in  December. 

"Widow  Jessup  talks  to  us  a  lot  of  garrulousness 
about  the  climate  and  history  and  Tennyson  and  prunes 
and  the  scarcity  of  mutton,  and  finally  wants  to  know 
where  we  came  from. 

"  'Spring Valley, 'says I. 

:  'Big  Spring  Valley/  chips  in  Paisley,  out  of  a  lot 
of  potatoes  and  knuckle-bone  of  ham  in  his  mouth. 

"That  was  the  first  sign  I  noticed  that  the  old 
fidus  Diogenes  business  between  me  and  Paisley  Fish 
was  ended  forever.  He  knew  how  I  hated  a  talkative 
person,  and  yet  he  stampedes  into  the  conversation  with 
his  amendments  and  addendums  of  syntax.  On  the 
map  it  was  Big  Spring  Valley;  but  I  had  heard  Paisley 
himself  call  it  Spring  Valley  a  thousand  times. 

"Without  saying  any  more,  we  went  out  after  supper 
and  set  on  the  railroad  track.  We  had  been  pardnera 
too  long  not  to  know  what  was  going  on  in  each  other's 
mind. 

"  'I  reckon  you  understand,'  says  Paisley,  'that 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  accrue  that  widow  woman 
as  part  and  parcel  in  and  to  my  hereditaments  for- 


Telemachus,  Friend  33 

ever,  both  domestic,  sociable,  legal,  and  otherwise,  until 
death  us  do  part.' 

"  '  Why,  yes,'  says  I,  '  I  read  it  between  the  lines, 
though  you  only  spoke  one.  And  I  suppose  you  are 
aware,'  says  I,  *  that  I  have  a  movement  on  foot  that 
leads  up  to  the  widow's  changing  her  name  to  Hicks, 
and  leaves  you  writing  to  the  society  column  to  in- 
quire whether  the  best  man  wears  a  japonica  or  seam- 
less socks  at  the  wedding ! ' 

"  '  There'll  be  some  hiatuses  in  your  program,'  says 
Paisley,  chewing  up  a  piece  of  a  railroad  tie.  *  I'd  give 
in  to  you,'  says  he,  *  in  'most  any  respect  if  it  was 
secular  affairs,  but  this  is  not  so.  The  smiles  of 
woman,'  goes  on  Paisley,  *  is  the  whirlpool  of  Squills 
and  Chalybeates,  into  which  vortex  the  good  ship 
Friendship  is  often  drawn  and  dismembered.  I'd  as- 
sault a  bear  that  was  annoying  you,'  says  Paisley, 
4  or  I'd  indorse  your  note,  or  rub  the  place  between 
your  shoulder-blades  with  opodeldoc  the  same  as  ever; 
but  there  my  sense  of  etiquette  ceases.  In  this  fracas 
with  Mrs.  Jessup  we  play  it  alone.  I've  notified  you 
fair.' 

"  And  then  I  collaborates  with  myself,  and  offers  the 
following  resolutions  and  by-laws: 

"  *  Friendship  between  man  and  man,'  says  I,  *  is 
an  ancient  historical  virtue  enacted  in  the  days  when 
men  had  to  protect  each  other  against  lizards  with 
eighty-foot  tails  and  flying  turtles.  And  they've  kept 
up  the  habit  to  this  day,  and  stand  by  each  other 
till  the  bellboy  comes  up  and  tells  them  the  animals 


34  Heart  of  the  West 

are  not  really  there.  I've  often  heard,'  I  says,  '  about 
ladies  stepping  in  and  breaking  up  a  friendship  be- 
tween men.  Why  should  that  be?  I'll  tell  you,  Pais- 
ley, the  first  sight  and  hot  biscuit  of  Mrs.  Jessup 
appears  to  have  inserted  a  oscillation  into  each  of  our 
bosoms.  Let  the  best  man  of  us  have  her.  I'll  play 
you  a  square  game,  and  won't  do  any  underhanded 
work.  I'll  do  all  of  my  courting  of  her  in  your  pres- 
ence, so  you  will  have  an  equal  opportunity.  With 
that  arrangement  I  don't  see  why  our  steamboat  of 
friendship  should  fall  overboard  in  the  medicinal  whirl- 
pools you  speak  of,  whichever  of  us  wins  out.' 

"  *  Good  old  hoss ! '  says  Paisley,  shaking  my  hand. 
'And  I'll  do  the  same,'  says  he.  <  We'll  court  the 
lady  synonymously,  and  without  any  of  the  prudery 
and  bloodshed  usual  to  such  occasions.  And  we'll  be 
friends  still,  win  or  lose.' 

"At  one  side  of  Mrs.  Jessup's  eating-house  was 
a  bench  under  some  trees  where  she  used  to  sit  in  the 
breeze  after  the  south-bound  had  been  fed  and  gone. 
And  there  me  and  Paisley  used  to  congregate  after 
supper  and  make  partial  payments  on  our  respects 
to  the  lady  of  our  choice.  And  we  was  so  honourable 
and  circuitous  in  our  calls  that  if  one  of  us  got  there 
first  we  waited  for  the  other  before  beginning  any 
gallivantery. 

"  The  first  evening  that  Mrs.  Jessup  knew  about 
our  arrangement  I  got  to  the  bench  before  Paisley 
did.  Supper  was  just  over,  and  Mrs.  Jessup  was  out 


Telemachus,  Friend  35 

there  with  a  fresh  pink  dress  on,  and  almost  cool 
enough  to  handle. 

"  I  sat  down  by  her  and  made  a  few  specifications 
about  the  moral  surface  of  nature  as  set  forth  by 
the  landscape  and  the  contiguous  perspective.  That 
evening  was  surely  a  case  in  point.  The  moon  was 
attending  to  business  in  the  section  of  sky  where  it 
belonged,  and  the  trees  was  making  shadows  on  the 
ground  according  to  science  and  nature,  and  there  was 
a  kind  of  conspicuous  hullabaloo  going  on  in  the  bushes 
between  the  bullbats  and  the  orioles  and  the  j  ack-rabbits 
and  other  feathered  insects  of  the  forest.  And  the 
wind  out  of  the  mountains  was  singing  like  a  jew's- 
harp  in  the  pile  of  old  tomato-cans  by  the  railroad  track. 

"  I  felt  a  kind  of  sensation  in  my  left  side  —  some- 
thing like  dough  rising  in  a  crock  by  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Jessup  had  moved  up  closer. 

"'Oh,  Mr.  Hicks,'  says  she,  6  when  one  is  alone  in 
the  world,  don't  they  feel  it  more  aggravated  on  a 
beautiful  night  like  this  ?  ' 

"  I  rose  up  off  of  the  bench  at  once. 

"  *  Excuse  me,  ma'am,'  says  I,  *  but  I'll  have  to  wait 
till  Paisley  comes  before  I  can  give  a  audible  hear- 
ing to  leading  questions  like  that.' 

"  And  then  I  explained  to  her  how  we  was  friends 
cinctured  by  years  of  embarrassment  and  travel  and 
complicity,  and  how  we  had  agreed  to  take  no  ad- 
vantage of  each  other  in  any  of  the  more  mushy  walks 
of  life,  such  as  might  be  fomented  by  sentiment  and 


86  Heart  of  the  West 

proximity.  Mrs.  Jessup  appears  to  think  serious  about 
the  matter  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  breaks  into  a 
species  of  laughter  that  makes  the  wildwood  resound. 

"  In  a  few  minutes  Paisley  drops  around,  with  oil 
of  bergamot  on  his  hair,  and  sits  on  the  other  side 
of  Mrs.  Jessup,  and  inaugurates  a  sad  tale  of  adven- 
ture in  which  him  and  Pieface  Lumley  has  a  skinning- 
match  of  dead  cows  in  '95  for  a  silver-mounted  saddle 
in  the  Santa  Rita  valley  during  the  nine  months* 
drought. 

"  Now,  from  the  start  of  that  courtship  I  had  Pais- 
ley Fish  hobbled  and  tied  to  a  post.  Each  one  of 
us  had  a  different  system  of  reaching  out  for  the  easy 
places  in  the  female  heart.  Paisley's  scheme  was  to 
petrify  'em  with  wonderful  relations  of  events  that  he 
had  either  come  across  personally  or  in  large  print.  I 
think  he  must  have  got  his  idea  of  subjugation  from 
one  of  Shakespeare's  shows  I  see  once  called  '  Othello.' 
There  is  a  coloured  man  in  it  who  acquires  a  duke's 
daughter  by  disbursing  to  her  a  mixture  of  the  talk 
turned  out  by  Rider  Haggard,  Lew  Dockstader,  and 
Dr.  Parkhurst.  But  that  style  of  courting  don't  work 
well  off  the  stage. 

"  Now,  I  give  you  my  own  recipe  for  inveigling 
a  woman  into  that  state  of  affairs  when  she  can  be 
referred  to  as  '  nee  Jones.'  Learn  how  to  pick  up  her 
hand  and  hold  it,  and  she's  yours.  It  ain't  so  easy. 
Some  men  grab  at  it  so  much  like  they  was  going  to 
set  a  dislocation  of  the  shoulder  that  you  can  smell 
the  arnica  and  hear  'em  tearing  off  bandages.  Some 


Telemachus,  Friend  37 

take  it  up  like  a  hot  horseshoe,  and  hold  it  off  at  arm's 
length  like  a  druggist  pouring  tincture  of  asafcetida 
in  a  bottle.  And  most  of  'em  catch  hold  of  it  and 
drag  it  right  out  before  the  lady's  eyes  like  a  boy 
finding  a  baseball  in  the  grass,  without  giving  her  a 
chance  to  forget  that  the  hand  is  growing  on  the  end 
of  her  arm.  Them  ways  are  all  wrong. 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  right  way.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
man  sneak  out  in  the  back  yard  and  pick  up  a  rock 
to  throw  at  a  tomcat  that  was  sitting  on  a  fence  look- 
ing at  him?  He  pretends  he  hasn't  got  a  thing  in  his 
hand,  and  that  the  cat  don't  see  him,  and  that  he 
don't  see  the  cat.  That's  the  idea.  Never  drag  her 
hand  out  where  she'll  have  to  take  notice  of  it.  Don't 
let  her  know  that  you  think  she  knows  you  have  the 
least  idea  she  is  aware  you  are  holding  her  hand.  That 
was  my  rule  of  tactics ;  and  as  far  as  Paisley's  serenade 
about  hostilities  and  misadventure  went,  he  might  as 
well  have  been  reading  to  her  a  time-table  of  the  Sun- 
day trains  that  stop  at  Ocean  Grove,  New  Jersey. 

"  One  night  when  I  beat  Paisley  to  the  bench  by 
one  pipeful,  my  friendship  gets  subsidised  for  a  min- 
ute, and  I  asks  Mrs.  Jessup  if  she  didn't  think  a 
'  H  '  was  easier  to  write  than  a  *  J.'  In  a  second  her 
head  was  mashing  the  oleander  flower  in  my  button- 
hole, and  I  leaned  over  and  —  but  I  didn't. 

"  *  If  you  don't  mind,'  says  I,  standing  up,  '  we'll 
wait  for  Paisley  to  come  before  finishing  this.  I've 
never  done  anything  dishonourable  yet  to  our  friend- 
ship, and  this  won't  be  quite  fair.' 


38  Heart  of  the  West 

" '  Mr.  Hicks,'  says  Mrs.  Jessup,  looking  at  me 
peculiar  in  the  dark,  '  if  it  wasn't  for  but  one  thing, 
I'd  ask  you  to  hike  yourself  down  the  gulch  and  never 
disresume  your  visits  to  my  house.' 

"  *  And  what  is  that,  ma'am?  '  I  asks. 

"  '  You  are  too  good  a  friend  not  to  make  a  good 
husband,'  says  she. 

"  In  five  minutes  Paisley  was  on  his  side  of  Mrs. 
Jessup. 

"  *  In  Silver  City,  in  the  summer  of  '98,'  he  begins, 
'  I  see  Jim  Bartholomew  chew  off  a  Chinaman's  ear 
in  the  Blue  Light  Saloon  on  account  of  a  crossbarred 
muslin  shirt  that  —  what  was  that  noise  ?  ' 

"  I  had  resumed  matters  again  with  M'rs.  Jessup 
right  where  we  had  left  off. 

"  c  Mrs.  Jessup,'  says  I,  *  has  promised  to  make  it 
Hicks.  And  this  is  another  of  the  same  sort.* 

"  Paisley  winds  his  feet  around  a  leg  of  the  bench 
and  kind  of  groans. 

"  *  Lem,'  says  he,  '  we  been  friends  for  seven  years. 
Vould  you  mind  not  kissing  Mrs.  Jessup  quite  so 
loud?  I'd  do  the  same  for  you.' 

"  *  All  right,'  says  I.  <  The  other  kind  will  do  as 
well.' 

"'This  Chinaman,' goes  on  Paisley,  *  was  the  one 
that  shot  a  man  named  Mullins  in  the  spring  of  '97, 
and  that  was  — ' 

"  Paisley  interrupted  himself  again. 

" '  Lem,'  says  he,  *  if  you  was  a  true  friend  you 
wouldn't  hug  Mrs.  Jessup  quite  so  hard.  I  felt  the 


Telemachus,  Friend  39 

bench  shake  all  over  just  then.  You  know  you  told 
me  you  would  give  me  an  even  chance  as  long  as 
there  was  any.' 

" c  Mr.  Man,'  says  Mrs.  Jessup,  turning  around  to 
Paisley,  '  if  you  was  to  drop  in  to  the  celebration  of 
mine  and  Mr.  Hicks's  silver  wedding,  twenty-five  years 
from  now,  do  you  think  you  could  get  it  into  that 
Hubbard  squash  you  call  your  head  that  you  are  nix 
cum  rous  in  this  business?  I've  put  up  with  you  a 
long  time  because  you  was  Mr.  Hicks's  friend;  but  it 
seems  to  me  it's  time  for  you  to  wear  the  willow  and 
trot  off  down  the  hill.' 

" '  Mrs.  Jessup,'  says  I,  without  losing  my  grasp 
on  the  situation  as  fiance,  *  Mr.  Paisley  is  my  friend, 
and  I  offered  him  a  square  deal  and  a  equal  oppor- 
tunity as  long  as  there  was  a  chance.' 

"  *  A  chance ! '  says  she.  *  Well,  he  may  think  he 
has  a  chance;  but  I  hope  he  won't  think  he's  got  a 
cinch,  after  what  he's  been  next  to  all  the  evening.' 

"  Well,  a  month  afterwards  me  and  Mrs.  Jessup 
was  married  in  the  Los  Piiios  Methodist  Church;  and 
the  whole  town  closed  up  to  see  the  performance. 

"  When  we  lined  up  in  front,  and  the  preacher  was 
beginning  to  sing  out  his  rituals  and  observances,  I 
looks  around  and  misses  Paisley.  I  calls  time  on  the 
preacher.  6  Paisley  ain't  here,'  says  I.  *  We've  got 
to  wait  for  Paisley.  A  friend  once,  a  friend  always 
—  that's  Telemachus  Hicks,'  says  I.  Mrs.  Jessup's 
eyes  snapped  some;  but  the  preacher  holds  up  the 
incantations  according  to  instructions. 


40  Heart  of  the  West 

"  In  a  few  minutes  Paisley  gallops  up  the  aisle, 
putting  on  a  cuff  as  he  comes.  He  explains  that  the 
only  dry-goods  store  in  town  was  closed  for  the  wed- 
ding, and  he  couldn't  get  the  kind  of  a  boiled  shirt 
that  his  taste  called  for  until  he  had  broke  open  the 
back  window  of  the  store  and  helped  himself.  Then 
he  ranges  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  bride,  and  the 
wedding  goes  on.  I  always  imagined  that  Paisley  cal- 
culated as  a  last  chance  that  the  preacher  might  marry 
him  to  the  widow  by  mistake. 

"  After  the  proceedings  was  over  we  had  tea  and 
jerked  antelope  and  canned  apricots,  and  then  the 
populace  hiked  itself  away.  Last  of  all  Paisley  shook 
me  by  the  hand  and  told  me  I'd  acted  square  and  on 
the  level  with  him  and  he  was  proud  to  call  me  a 
friend. 

"  The  preacher  had  a  small  house  on  the  side  of 
the  street  that  he'd  fixed  up  to  rent;  and  he  allowed 
me  and  Mrs.  Hicks  to  occupy  it  till  the  ten-forty 
train  the  next  morning,  when  we  was  going  on  a 
bridal  tour  to  El  Paso.  His  wife  had  decorated  it 
all  up  with  hollyhocks  and  poison  ivy,  and  it  looked 
real  festal  and  bowery. 

"  About  ten  o'clock  that  night  I  sets  down  in  the 
front  door  and  pulls  off  my  boots  a  while  in  the  cool 
breeze,  while  Mrs.  Hicks  was  fixing  around  in  the  room. 
Right  soon  the  light  went  out  inside;  and  I  sat  there 
a  while  reverberating  over  old  times  and  scenes.  And 
then  I  heard  Mrs.  Hicks  call  out,  '  Ain't  you  coming 
in  soon,  Lem? ' 


Telemachus,  Friend  41 

"  *  Well,  well ! '  says  I,  kind  of  rousing  up.  *  Burn 
me  if  I  wasn't  waiting  for  old  Paisley  to  — ' 

"  But  when  I  got  that  far,"  concluded  Telemachus 
Hicks,  "  I  thought  somebody  had  shot  this  left  ear 
of  mine  off  with  a  forty-five.  But  it  turned  out  to 
be  only  a  lick  from  a  broomhandle  in  the  hands  of 
Mrs.  Hicks." 


IV 

THE  HANDBOOK  OF  HYMEN 

1  IS  the  opinion  of  myself,  Sanderson  Pratt,  who 
sets  this  down,  that  the  educational  system  of  the 
United  States  should  be  in  the  hands  of  the  weather 
bureau.  I  can  give  you  good  reasons  for  it ;  and  you 
can't  tell  me  why  our  college  professors  shouldn't  be 
transferred  to  the  meteorological  department.  They 
have  been  learned  to  read;  and  they  could  very  easily 
glance  at  the  morning  papers  and  then  wire  in  to  the 
main  office  what  kind  of  weather  to  expect.  But  there's 
the  other  side  of  the  proposition.  I  am  going  on  to 
tell  you  how  the  weather  furnished  me  and  Idaho  Green 
with  an  elegant  education. 

We  was  up  in  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains  over  the 
Montana  line  prospecting  for  gold.  A  chin-whiskered 
man  in  Walla-Walla,  carrying  a  line  of  hope  as  excess 
baggage,  had  grubstaked  us;  and  there  we  was  in  the 
foothills  pecking  away,  with  enough  grub  on  hand  to 
last  an  army  through  a  peace  conference. 

Along  one  day  comes  a  mail-rider  over  the  moun- 
tains from  Carlos,  and  stops  to  eat  three  cans  of  green- 
gages, and  leave  us  a  newspaper  of  modern  date.  This 
paper  prints  a  system  of  premonitions  of  the  weather, 
and  the  card  it  dealt  Bitter  Root  Mountains  from  the 

42 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  43 

bottom  of  the  deck  was  "  warmer  and  fair,  with  light 
westerly  breezes." 

That  evening  it  began  to  snow,  with  the  wind  strong 
in  the  east.  Me  and  Idaho  moved  camp  into  an  old 
empty  cabin  higher  up  the  mountain,  thinking  it  was 
only  a  November  flurry.  But  after  falling  three  foot 
on  a  level  it  went  to  work  in  earnest;  and  we  knew  we 
was  snowed  in.  We  got  in  plenty  of  firewood  before 
it  got  deep,  and  we  had  grub  enough  for  two  months, 
so  we  let  the  elements  rage  and  cut  up  all  they  thought 
proper. 

If  you  want  to  instigate  the  art  of  manslaughter 
just  shut  two  men  up  in  a  eighteen  by  twenty-foot 
cabin  for  a  month.  Human  nature  won't  stand  it. 

When  the  first  snowflakes  fell  me  and  Idaho  Green 
laughed  at  each  other's  jokes  and  praised  the  stuff 
we  turned  out  of  a  skillet  and  called  bread.  At  the 
end  of  three  weeks  Idaho  makes  this  kind  of  a  edict 
to  me.  Says  he: 

"  I  never  exactly  heard  sour  milk  dropping  out  of 
a  balloon  on  the  bottom  of  a  tin  pan,  but  I  have  an 
idea  it  would  be  music  of  the  spears  compared  to  this 
attenuated  stream  of  asphyxiated  thought  that  ema- 
nates out  of  your  organs  of  conversation.  The  kind 
of  half-masticated  noises  that  you  emit  every  day  puts 
me  in  mind  of  a  cow's  cud,  only  she's  lady  enough  to 
keep  hers  to  herself,  and  you  ain't." 

"  Mr.  Green,"  says  I,  "  you  having  been  a  friend  of 
mine  once,  I  have  some  hesitations  in  confessing  to 
you  that  if  I  had  my  choice  for  society  between  you 


44  Heart  of  the  West 

and  a  common  yellow,  three-legged  cur  pup,  one  of 
the  inmates  of  this  here  cabin  would  be  wagging  a 
tail  just  at  present." 

This  way  we  goes  on  for  two  or  three  days,  and 
then  we  quits  speaking  to  one  another.  We  divides 
up  the  cooking  implements,  and  Idaho  cooks  his  grub 
on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  me  on  the  other.  The 
snow  is  up  to  the  windows,  and  we  have  to  keep  a 
fire  all  day. 

You  see  me  and  Idaho  never  had  any  education 
beyond  reading  and  doing  "  if  John  had  three  apples 
and  James  five  "  on  a  slate.  We  never  felt  any  special 
need  for  a  university  degree,  though  we  had  acquired 
a  species  of  intrinsic  intelligence  in  knocking  around 
the  world  that  we  could  use  in  emergencies.  But, 
snowbound  in  that  cabin  in  the  Bitter  Roots,  we  felt 
for  the  first  time  that  if  we  had  studied  Homer  or 
Greek  and  fractions  and  the  higher  branches  of  in- 
formation, we'd  have  had  some  resources  in  the  line 
of  meditation  and  private  thought.  I've  seen  them 
Eastern  college  fellows  working  in  camps  all  through 
the  West,  and  I  never  noticed  but  what  education  was 
less  of  a  drawback  to  'em  than  you  would  think.  Why, 
once  over  on  Snake  River,  when  Andrew  McWilliams' 
saddle  horse  got  the  botts,  he  sent  a  buckboard  ten 
miles  for  one  of  these  strangers  that  claimed  to  be  a 
botanist.  But  that  horse  died. 

One  morning  Idaho  was  poking  around  with  a  stick 
on  top  of  a  little  shelf  that  was  too  high  to  reach. 
Two  books  fell  down  to  the  floor.  I  started  toward 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  45 

'em,  but  caught  Idaho's  eye.  He  speaks  for  the  first 
time  in  a  week. 

"  Don't  burn  your  fingers,"  says  he.  "  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  you're  only  fit  to  be  the  companion  of 
a  sleeping  mud-turtle,  I'll  give  you  a  square  deal.  And 
that's  more  than  your  parents  did  when  they  turned 
you  loose  in  the  world  with  the  sociability  of  a  rattle- 
snake and  the  bedside  manner  of  a  frozen  turnip.  I'll 
play  you  a  game  of  seven-up,  the  winner  to  pick  up 
his  choice  of  the  book,  the  loser  to  take  the  other." 

We  played;  and  Idaho  won.  He  picked  up  his 
book;  and  I  took  mine.  Then  each  of  us  got  on  his 
side  of  the  house  and  went  to  reading. 

I  never  was  *  as  glad  to  see  a  ten-ounce  nugget  as 
I  was  that  book.  And  Idaho  looked  at  his  like  a  kid 
looks  at  a  stick  of  candy. 

Mine  was  a  little  book  about  five  by  six  inches  called 
"  Herkimer's  Handbook  of  Indispensable  Information.'* 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  that  was  the  greatest  book 
that  ever  was  written.  I've  got  it  to-day;  and  I  can 
stump  you  or  any  man  fifty  times  in  five  minutes  with 
the  information  in  it.  Talk  about  Solomon  or  the 
New  York  Tribune!  Herkimer  had  cases  on  both  of 
'em.  That  man  must  have  put  in  fifty  years  and 
travelled  a  million  miles  to  find  out  all  that  stuff.  There 
was  the  population  of  all  cities  in  it,  and  the  way  to 
tell  a  girl's  age,  and  the  number  of  teeth  a  camel  has. 
It  told  you  the  longest  tunnel  in  the  world,  the  number 
of  the  stars,  how  long  it  takes  for  chicken  pox  to 
break  out,  what  a  lady's  neck  ought  to  measure,  the 


46  Heart  of  the  West 

veto  powers  of  Governors,  the  dates  of  the  Roman 
aqueducts,  how  many  pounds  of  rice  going  without 
three  beers  a  day  would  buy,  the  average  annual  tem- 
perature of  Augusta,  Maine,  the  quantity  of  seed  re- 
quired to  plant  an  acre  of  carrots  in  drills,  antidotes 
for  poisons,  the  number  of  hairs  on  a  blond  lady's 
head,  how  to  preserve  eggs,  the  height  of  all  the  moun- 
tains in  the  world,  and  the  dates  of  all  wars  and  battles, 
and  how  to  restore  drowned  persons,  and  sunstroke, 
and  the  number  of  tacks  in  a  pound,  and  how  to  make 
dynamite  and  flowers  and  beds,  and  what  to  do  before 
the  doctor  comes  —  and  a  hundred  times  as  many  things 
besides.  If  there  was  anything  Herkimer  didn't  know 
I  didn't  miss  it  out  of  the  book. 

I  sat  and  read  that  book  for  four  hours.  All  the 
wonders  of  education  was  compressed  in  it.  I  for- 
got the  snow,  and  I  forgot  that  me  and  old  Idaho 
was  on  the  outs.  He  was  sitting  still  on  a  stool  read- 
ing away  with  a  kind  of  partly  soft  and  partly 
mysterious  look  shining  through  his  tan-bark  whiskers. 

"  Idaho,"  says  I,  "  what  kind  of  a  book  is  yours  ?  " 

Idaho  must  have  forgot,  too,  for  he  answered  mod- 
erate, without  any  slander  or  malignity. 

"  Why,"  says  he,  "  this  here  seems  to  be  a  volume 
by  Homer  K.  M." 

"  Homer  K.  M.  what?  "  I  asks. 

"  Why,  just  Homer  K.  M.,"  says  he. 

"  You're  a  liar,"  says  I,  a  little  riled  that  Idaho 
should  try  to  put  me  up  a  tree.  "  No  man  is  going 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  47 

'round  signing  books  with  his  initials.  If  it's  Homer 
K.  M.  Spoopendyke,  or  Homer  K.  M.  McSweeney, 
or  Homer  K.  M.  Jones,  why  don't  you  say  so  like  a 
man  instead  of  biting  off  the  end  of  it  like  a  calf 
chewing  off  the  tail  of  a  shirt  on  a  clothes-line  ?  " 

"  I  put  it  to  you  straight,  Sandy,"  says  Idaho, 
quiet.  "  It's  a  poem  book,"  says  he,  "  by  Homer  K. 
M.  I  couldn't  get  colour  out  of  it  at  first,  but  there's 
a  vein  if  you  follow  it  up.  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
this  book  for  a  pair  of  red  blankets." 

"  You're  welcome  to  it,"  says  I.  "  What  I  want  is 
a  disinterested  statement  of  facts  for  the  mind  to 
work  on,  and  that's  what  I  seem  to  find  in  the  book 
I've  drawn." 

"  What  you've  got,"  says  Idaho,  "  is  statistics,  the 
lowest  grade  of  information  that  exists.  They'll  poison 
your  mind.  Give  me  old  K.  M.'s  system  of  surmises. 
He  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  a  wine  agent.  His  regular 
toast  is  '  nothing  doing,'  and  he  seems  to  have  a  grouch, 
but  he  keeps  it  so  well  lubricated  with  booze  that  his 
worst  kicks  sound  like  an  invitation  to  split  a  quart. 
But  it's  poetry,"  says  Idaho,  "  and  I  have  sensations 
of  scorn  for  that  truck  of  yours  that  tries  to  convey 
sense  in  feet  and  inches.  When  it  comes  to  explaining 
the  instinct  of  philosophy  through  the  art  of  nature, 
old  K.  M.  has  got  your  man  beat  by  drills,  rows,  para- 
graphs, chest  measurement,  and  average  annual  rain- 
fall." 

So  that's  the  way  me  and  Idaho  had  it.     Day  and 


48  Heart  of  the  West 

night  all  the  excitement  we  got  was  studying  our  books. 
That  snowstorm  sure  fixed  us  with  a  fine  lot  of  attain- 
ments apiece.  By  the  time  the  snow  melted,  if  you  had 
stepped  up  to  me  suddenly  and  said :  "  Sanderson 
Pratt,  what  would  it  cost  per  square  foot  to  lay  a 
roof  with  twenty  by  twenty-eight  tin  at  nine  dollars 
and  fifty  cents  per  box?  "  I'd  have  told  you  as  quick 
as  light  could  travel  the  length  of  a  spade  handle  at 
the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-two  thousand  miles 
per  second.  How  many  can  do  it?  You  wake  up 
'most  any  man  you  know  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  ask  him  quick  to  tell  you  the  number  of  bones  in 
the  human  skeleton  exclusive  of  the  teeth,  or  what 
percentage  of  the  vote  of  the  Nebraska  Legislature 
overrules  a  veto.  Will  he  tell  you?  Try  him  and 
see. 

About  what  benefit  Idaho  got  out  of  his  poetry 
book  I  didn't  exactly  know.  Idaho  boosted  the  wine- 
agent  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth;  but  I  wasn't 
so  sure. 

This  Homer  K.  M.,  from  what  leaked  out  of  his 
libretto  through  Idaho,  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  kind 
of  a  dog  who  looked  at  life  like  it  was  a  tin  can  tied 
to  his  tail.  After  running  himself  half  to  death,  he 
sits  down,  hangs  his  tongue  out,  and  looks  at  the  can 
and  says: 

"Oh,  well,  since  we  can't  shake  the  growler,  let's 
get  it  filled  at  the  corner,  and  all  have  a  drink  on 
me." 

Besides  that,  it  seems  he  was  a  Persian ;  and  I  never 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  49 

hear  of  Persia  producing  anything  worth  mentioning 
unless  it  was  Turkish  rugs  and  Maltese  cats. 

That  spring  me  and  Idaho  struck  pay  ore.  It  was 
a  habit  of  ours  to  sell  out  quick  and  keep  moving. 
We  unloaded  on  our  grubstaker  for  eight  thousand 
dollars  apiece;  and  then  we  drifted  down  to  this  little 
town  of  Rosa,  on  the  Salmon  River,  to  rest  up,  and 
get  some  human  grub,  and  have  our  whiskers  har- 
vested. 

Rosa  was  no  mining-camp.  It  laid  in  the  valley, 
and  was  as  free  of  uproar  and  pestilence  as  one  of 
them  rural  towns  in  the  country.  There  was  a  three- 
mile  trolley  line  champing  its  bit  in  the  environs;  and 
me  and  Idaho  spent  a  week  riding  on  one  of  the  cars, 
dropping  off  of  nights  at  the  Sunset  View  Hotel.  Being 
now  well  read  as  well  as  travelled,  we  was  soon  pro  re 
nata  with  the  best  society  in  Rosa,  and  was  invited  out 
to  the  most  dressed-up  and  high-toned  entertainments. 
It  was  at  a  piano  recital  and  quail-eating  contest  in 
the  city  hall,  for  the  benefit  of  the  fire  company,  that 
me  and  Idaho  first  met  Mrs.  De  Ormond  Sampson,  the 
queen  of  Rosa  society. 

Mrs.  Sampson  was  a  widow,  and  owned  the  only 
two-story  house  in  town.  It  was  painted  yellow,  and 
whichever  way  you  looked  from  you  could  see  it  as 
plain  as  egg  on  the  chin  of  an  O'Grady  on  a  Friday. 
Twent3'-two  men  in  Rosa  besides  me  and  Idaho  was 
trying  to  stake  a  claim  on  that  yellow  house. 

There  was  a  dance  after  the  song  books  and  quail 
bones  had  been  raked  out  of  the  Hall.  Twenty-three 


50  Heart  of  the  West 

of  the  bunch  galloped  over  to  Mrs.  Sampson  and  asked 
for  a  dance.  I  side-stepped  the  two-step,  and  asked 
permission  to  escort  her  home.  That's  where  I  made 
a  hit. 

On  the  way  home  says  she: 

"  Ain't  the  stars  lovely  and  bright  to-night,  Mr. 
Pratt?" 

"  For  the  chance  they've  got,"  says  I,  "  they're  hump- 
ing themselves  in  a  mighty  creditable  way.  That  big 
one  you  see  is  sixty-six  billions  of  miles  distant.  It 
took  thirty-six  years  for  its  light  to  reach  us.  With 
an  eighteen-foot  telescope  you  can  see  forty-three 
millions  of  'em,  including  them  of  the  thirteenth  mag- 
nitude, which,  if  one  was  to  go  out  now,  you  would 
keep  on  seeing  it  for  twenty-seven  hundred  years." 

"  My !  "  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "  I  never  knew  that 
before.  How  warm  it  is !  I'm  as  damp  as  I  can  be 
from  dancing  so  much." 

"  That's  easy  to  account  for,"  says  I,  "  when  you 
happen  to  know  that  you've  got  two  million  sweat- 
glands  working  all  at  once.  If  every  one  of  your  per- 
spiratory ducts,  which  are  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long, 
was  placed  end  to  end,  they  would  reach  a  distance  of 
seven  miles." 

"  Lawsy  !  "  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "  It  sounds  like  an 
irrigation  ditch  you  was  describing,  Mr.  Pratt.  How 
do  you  get  all  this  knowledge  of  information?  " 

"  From  observation,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  tells  her.  "  I 
keep  my  eyes  open  when  I  go  about  the  world." 

"  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  she,  "  I  always  did  admire  a  man 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  51 

of  education.  There  are  so  few  scholars  among  the 
sap-headed  plug-uglies  of  this  town  that  it  is  a  real 
pleasure  to  converse  with  a  gentleman  of  culture.  I'd 
be  gratified  to  have  you  call  at  my  house  whenever 
you  feel  so  inclined." 

And  that  was  the  way  I  got  the  goodwill  of  the  lady 
in  the  yellow  house.  Every  Tuesday  and  Friday  even- 
ings I  used  to  go  there  and  tell  her  about  the  won- 
ders of  the  universe  as  discovered,  tabulated,  and  com- 
piled from  nature  by  Herkimer.  Idaho  and  the  other 
gay  Lutherans  of  the  town  got  every  minute  of  the  rest 
of  the  week  that  they  could. 

I  never  imagined  that  Idaho  was  trying  to  work  on 
Mrs.  Sampson  with  old  K.  M.'s  rules  of  courtship  till 
one  afternoon  when  I  was  on  my  way  over  to  take 
her  a  basket  of  wild  hog-plums.  I  met  the  lady  com- 
ing down  the  lane  that  led  to  her  house.  Her  eyes 
was  snapping,  and  her  hat  made  a  dangerous  dip  over 
one  eye. 

"  Mr.  Pratt,"  she  opens  up,  "  this  Mr.  Green  is  a 
friend  of  yours,  I  believe." 

"  For  nine  years,"  says  I. 

"  Cut  him  out,"  says  she.      "  He's  no  gentleman !  " 

"  Why  ma'am,"  says  I,  "  he's  a  plain  incumbent  of 
the  mountains,  with  asperities  and  the  usual  failings 
of  a  spendthrift  and  a  liar,  but  I  never  on  the  most 
momentous  occasion  had  the  heart  to  deny  that  he  was 
a  gentleman.  It  may  be  that  in  haberdashery  and  the 
sense  of  arrogance  and  display  Idaho  offends  the  eye, 
but  inside,  ma'am,  I've  found  him  impervious  to  the 


52  Heart  of  the  West 

lower  grades  of  crime  and  obesity.  After  nine  years 
of  Idaho's  society,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  winds  up,  "  I 
should  hate  to  impute  him,  and  I  should  hate  to  see 
him  imputed." 

"  It's  right  plausible  of  you,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs. 
Sampson,  "  to  take  up  the  curmudgeons  in  your  friend's 
behalf;  but  it  don't  alter  the  fact  that  he  has  made 
proposals  to  me  sufficiently  obnoxious  to  ruffle  the 
ignominy  of  any  lady." 

"  Why,  now,  now,  now ! "  says  I.  "  Old  Idaho  do 
that!  I  could  believe  it  of  myself  sooner.  I  never 
knew  but  one  thing  to  deride  in  him;  and  a  blizzard 
was  responsible  for  that.  Once  while  we  was  snow- 
bound in  the  mountains  he  became  a  prey  to  a  kind 
of  spurious  and  uneven  poetry,  which  may  have  cor- 
rupted his  demeanour." 

"  It  has,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "  Ever  since  I  knew 
him  he  has  been  reciting  to  me  a  lot  of  irreligious 
rhymes  by  some  person  he  calls  Ruby  Ott,  and  who 
is  no  better  than  she  should  be,  if  you  judge  by  her 
poetry." 

"  Then  Idaho  has  struck  a  new  book,"  says  I,  "  for 
the  one  he  had  was  by  a  man  who  writes  under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  K.  M." 

"  He'd  better  have  stuck  to  it,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson, 
"  whatever  it  was.  And  to-day  he  caps  the  vortex.  I 
get  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  him,  and  on  'em  is  pinned 
a  note.  Now,  Mr.  Pratt,  you  know  a  lady  when  you 
see  her;  and  you  know  how  I  stand  in  Rosa  society. 
Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that  I'd  skip  out  to  the 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  53 

woods  with  a  man  along  with  a  jug  of  wine  and  a  loaf 
of  bread,  and  go  singing  and  cavorting  up  and  down 
under  the  trees  with  him?  I  take  a  little  claret  with  my 
meals,  but  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  packing  a  jug  of  it 
into  the  brush  and  raising  Cain  in  any  such  style  as 
that.  And  of  course  he'd  bring  his  book  of  verses  along, 
too.  He  said  so.  Let  him  go  on  his  scandalous  picnics 
alone!  Or  let  him  take  his  Ruby  Ott  with  him.  I 
reckon  she  wouldn't  kick  unless  it  was  on  account  of 
there  being  too  much  bread  along.  And  what  do  you 
think  of  your  gentleman  friend  now,  Mr.  Pratt?" 

"Well,  'm,"  says  I,  "it  may  be  that  Idaho's  invita- 
tion was  a  kind  of  poetry,  and  meant  no  harm.  May 
be  it  belonged  to  the  class  of  rhymes  they  call  figura- 
tive. They  offend  law  and  order,  but  they  get  sent 
through  the  mails  on  the  grounds  that  they  mean  some- 
thing that  they  don't  say.  I'd  be  glad  on  Idaho's  ac- 
count if  you'd  overlook  it,"  says  I,  "and  let  us  extricate 
our  minds  from  the  low  regions  of  poetry  to  the  higher 
planes  of  fact  and  fancy.  On  a  beautiful  afternoon 
like  this,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  I  goes  on,  "we  should  let  our 
thoughts  dwell  accordingly.  Though  it  is  warm  here, 
we  should  remember  that  at  the  equator  the  line  of  per- 
petual frost  is  at  an  altitude  of  fifteen  thousand  feet. 
Between  the  latitudes  of  forty  degrees  and  forty-nine  de- 
grees it  is  from  four  thousand  to  nine  thousand  feet." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson,  "it's  such  a 
comfort  to  hear  you  say  them  beautiful  facts  after  get- 
ting such  a  jar  from  that  minx  of  a  Ruby's  poetry ! " 

"Let  us  sit  on  this  log  at  the  roadside,"  says  I,  "and 


54  Heart  of  the  West 

forget  the  inhumanity  and  ribaldry  of  the  poets.  It 
is  in  the  glorious  columns  of  ascertained  facts  and 
legalised  measures  that  beauty  is  to  be  found.  In  this 
very  log  we  sit  upon,  Mrs.  Sampson,"  says  I,  "  is  statis- 
tics more  wonderful  than  any  poem.  The  rings  show 
it  was  sixty  years  old.  At  the  depth  of  two  thousand 
feet  it  would  become  coal  in  three  thousand  years.  The 
deepest  coal  mine  in  the  world  is  at  Killingworth,  near 
Newcastle.  A  box  four  feet  long,  three  feet  wide,  and 
two  feet  eight  inches  deep  will  hold  one  ton  of  coal.  If 
an  artery  is  cut,  compress  it  above  the  wound.  A  man's 
leg  contains  thirty  bones.  The  Tower  of  London  was 
burned  in  1841." 

"  Go  on,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  Mrs.  Sampson.  "  Them 
ideas  is  so  original  and  soothing.  I  think  statistics  are 
just  as  lovely  as  they  can  be." 

But  it  wasn't  till  two  weeks  later  that  I  got  all  that 
was  coming  to  me  out  of  Herkimer. 

One  night  I  was  waked  up  by  folks  hollering  "  Fire !  " 
all  around.  I  jumped  up  and  dressed  and  went  out  of 
the  hotel  to  enjoy  the  scene.  When  I  seen  it  was  Mrs. 
Sampson's  house,  I  gave  forth  a  kind  of  yell,  and  I  was 
there  in  two  minutes. 

The  whole  lower  story  of  the  yellow  house  was  in 
flames,  and  every  masculine,  feminine,  and  canine  in  Rosa 
was  there,  screeching  and  barking  and  getting  in  the 
way  of  the  firemen.  I  saw  Idaho  trying  to  get  away 
from  six  firemen  who  were  holding  him.  They  was  tell- 
ing him  the  whole  place  was  on  fire  down-stairs,  and  no 
man  could  go  in  it  and  come  out  alive. 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  55 

"Where's  Mrs.  Sampson?"  I  asks. 

"  She  hasn't  been  seen,"  says  one  of  the  firemen. 
"  She  sleeps  up-stairs.  We've  tried  to  get  in,  but  we 
can't,  and  our  company  hasn't  got  any  ladders  yet." 

I  runs  around  to  the  light  of  the  big  blaze,  and  pulls 
the  Handbook  out  of  my  inside  pocket.  I  kind  of 
laughed  when  I  felt  it  in  my  hands  —  I  reckon  I  was 
some  daffy  with  the  sensation  of  excitement. 

"  Herky,  old  boy,"  I  says  to  it,  as  I  flipped  over  the 
pages,  "  you  ain't  ever  lied  to  me  yet,  and  you  ain't  ever 
throwed  me  down  at  a  scratch  yet.  Tell  me  what,  old 
boy,  tell  me  what !  "  says  I. 

I  turned  to  "  What  to  do  in  Case  of  Accidents,"  on 
page  117.  I  run  my  finger  down  the  page,  and  struck 
it.  Good  old  Herkimer,  he  never  overlooked  anything! 
It  said: 

SuirocATiosr  FROM  INHALING  SMOKE  OR  GAS. —  There  is  nothing 
better  than  flaxseed.  Place  a  few  seed  in  the  outer  corner  of 
the  eye. 

I  shoved  the  Handbook  back  in  my  pocket,  and 
grabbed  a  boy  that  was  running  by. 

"  Here,"  says  I,  giving  him  some  money,  "  run  to 
the  drug  store  and  bring  a  dollar's  worth  of  flaxseed. 
Hurry,  and  you'll  get  another  one  for  yourself.  Now," 
I  sings  out  to  the  crowd,  "  we'll  have  Mrs.  Sampson !  " 
And  I  throws  away  my  coat  and  hat. 

Four  of  the  firemen  and  citizens  grabs  hold  of  me. 
It's  sure  death,  they  say,  to  go  in  the  house,  for  the 
floors  was  beginning  to  fall  through. 


56  Heart  of  the  West 

"  How  in  blazes,"  I  sings  out,  kind  of  laughing  yet, 
but  not  feeling  like  it,  "  do  you  expect  me  to  put  flax- 
seed  in  a  eye  without  the  eye?  " 

I  jabbed  each  elbow  in  a  fireman's  face,  kicked  the 
bark  off  of  one  citizen's  shin,  and  tripped  the  other  one 
with  a  side  hold.  And  then  I  busted  into  the  house. 
If  I  die  first  I'll  write  you  a  letter  and  tell  you  if  it's 
any  worse  down  there  than  the  inside  of  that  yellow 
house  was ;  but  don't  believe  it  yet.  I  was  a  heap  more 
cooked  than  the  hurry-up  orders  of  broiled  chicken  that 
you  get  in  restaurants.  The  fire  and  smoke  had  me 
down  on  the  floor  twice,  and  was  about  to  shame  Herki- 
mer,  but  the  firemen  helped  me  with  their  little  stream 
of  water,  and  I  got  to  Mrs.  Sampson's  room.  She'd 
lost  conscientiousness  from  the  smoke,  so  I  wrapped  her 
in  the  bed  clothes  and  got  her  on  my  shoulder.  Well, 
the  floors  wasn't  as  bad  as  they  said,  or  I  never  could 
have  done  it  —  not  by  no  means. 

I  carried  her  out  fifty  yards  from  the  house  and  laid 
her  on  the  grass.  Then,  of  course,  every  one  of  them 
other  twenty-two  plaintiffs  to  the  lady's  hand  crowded 
around  with  tin  dippers  of  water  ready  to  save  her. 
And  up  runs  the  boy  with  the  flaxseed. 

I  unwrapped  the  covers  from  Mrs.  Sampson's  head. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  says : 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Pratt?  " 

"  S-s-sh,"  says  I.  "  Don't  talk  till  you've  had  the 
remedy." 

I  runs  my  arm  around  her  neck  and  raises  her  head, 
gentle,  and  breaks  the  bag  of  flaxseed  with  the  other 


The  Handbook  of  Hymen  57 

hand ;  and  as  easy  as  I  could  I  bends  over  and  slips  three 
or  four  of  the  seeds  in  the  outer  corner  of  her  eye. 

Up  gallops  the  village  doc  by  this  time,  and  snorts 
around,  and  grabs  at  Mrs.  Sampson's  pulse,  and  wants 
to  know  what  I  mean  by  any  such  sandblasted  non- 
sense. 

"  Well,  old  Jalap  and  Jerusalem  oakseed,"  says  I, 
"  I'm  no  regular  practitioner,  but  I'll  show  you  my  au- 
thority, anyway." 

They  fetched  my  coat,  and  I  gets  out  the  Hand- 
book. 

"  Look  on  page  117,"  says  I,  "  at  the  remedy  for  suf- 
focation by  smoke  or  gas.  Flaxseed  in  the  outer  cor- 
ner of  the  eye,  it  says.  I  don't  know  whether  it  works 
as  a  smoke  consumer  or  whether  it  hikes  the  compound 
gastro-hippopotamus  nerve  into  action,  but  Herkimer 
says  it,  and  he  was  called  to  the  case  first.  If  you  want 
to  make  it  a  consultation,  there's  no  objection." 

Old  doc  takes  the  book  and  looks  at  it  by  means  of 
his  specs  and  a  fireman's  lantern. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Pratt,"  says  he,  "  you  evidently  got  on 
the  wrong  line  in  reading  your  diagnosis.  The  recipe 
for  suffocation  says :  6  Get  the  patient  into  fresh  air  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  place  in  a  reclining  position.' 
The  flaxseed  remedy  is  for  '  Dust  and  Cinders  in  the 
Eye,'  on  the  line  above.  But,  after  all  — " 

"  See  here,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Sampson,  "  I  reckon 
I've  got  something  to  say  in  this  consultation.  That 
flaxseed  done  me  more  good  than  anything  I  ever  tried." 
And  then  she  raises  up  her  head  and  lays  it  back  on  my 


58  Heart  of  the  West 

arm   again,  and  says :     "  Put   some  in  the  other   eye, 
Sandy  dear." 

And  so  if  you  was  to  stop  off  at  Rosa  to-morrow,  or 
any  other  day,  you'd  see  a  fine  new  yellow  house  with 
Mrs.  Pratt,  that  was  Mrs.  Sampson,  embellishing  and 
adorning  it.  And  if  you  was  to  step  inside  you'd  see 
on  the  marble-top  centre  table  in  the  parlour  "  Herki- 
mer's  Handbook  of  Indispensable  Information,"  all  re- 
bound in  red  morocco,  and  ready  to  be  consulted  on 
any  subject  pertaining  to  human  happiness  and  wis- 
dom. 


V 
THE  PIMIENTA  PANCAKES 

we  were  rounding  up  a  bunch  of  the  Tri- 
angle-O  cattle  in  the  Frio  bottoms  a  projecting  branch 
of  a  dead  mesquite  caught  my  wooden  stirrup  and  gave 
my  ankle  a  wrench  that  laid  me  up  in  camp  for  a 
week. 

On  the  third  day  of  my  compulsory  idleness  I  crawled 
out  near  the  grub  wagon,  and  reclined  helpless  under 
the  conversational  fire  of  Judson  Odom,  the  camp  cook. 
Jud  was  a  monologist  by  nature,  whom  Destiny,  with 
customary  blundering,  had  set  in  a  profession  wherein 
he  was  bereaved,  for  the  greater  portion  of  his  time, 
of  an  audience. 

Therefore,  I  was  manna  in  the  desert  of  Jud's  ob- 
mutescence. 

Betimes  I  was  stirred  by  invalid  longings  for  some- 
thing to  eat  that  did  not  come  under  the  caption  of 
"  grub."  I  had  visions  of  the  maternal  pantry  "  deep 
as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret,"  and  then  I  asked : 

"  Jud,  can  you  make  pancakes  ?  " 

Jud  laid  down  his  six-shooter,  with  which  he  was  pre- 
paring to  pound  an  antelope  steak,  and  stood  over  me 
in  what  I  felt  to  be  a  menacing  attitude.  He  further 
indorsed  my  impression  that  his  pose  was  resentful  by 

59 


60  Heart  of  the  West 

fixing  upon  me  with  his  light  blue  eyes  a  look  of  cold 
suspicion. 

"  Say,  you,"  he  said,  with  candid,  though  not  exces- 
sive, choler,  "  did  you  mean  that  straight,  or  was  you 
trying  to  throw  the  gaff  into  me?  Some  of  the  boys 
been  telling  you  about  me  and  that  pancake  racket  ?  " 

"  No,  Jud,"  I  said,  sincerely,  "  I  meant  it.  It  seems 
to  me  I'd  swap  my  pony  and  saddle  for  a  stack  of  but- 
tered brown  pancakes  with  some  first  crop,  open  kettle, 
New  Orleans  sweetening.  Was  there  a  story  about  pan- 
cakes?" 

Jud  was  mollified  at  once  when  he  saw  that  I  had  not 
been  dealing  in  allusions.  He  brought  some  mysterious 
bags  and  tin  boxes  from  the  grub  wagon  and  set  them 
in  the  shade  of  the  hackberry  where  I  lay  reclined.  I 
watched  him  as  he  began  to  arrange  them  leisurely  and 
untie  their  many  strings. 

"  No,  not  a  story,"  said  Jud,  as  he  worked,  "  but  just 
the  logical  disclosures  in  the  case  of  me  and  that  pink- 
eyed  snoozer  from  Mired  Mule  Canada  and  Miss  Willella 
Learight.  I  don't  mind  telling  you. 

"  I  was  punching  then  for  old  Bill  Toomey,  on  the 
San  Miguel.  One  day  I  gets  all  ensnared  up  in  aspira- 
tions for  to  eat  some  canned  grub  that  hasn't  ever 
mooed  or  baaed  or  grunted  or  been  in  peck  measures. 
So,  I  gets  on  my  bronc  and  pushes  the  wind  for  Uncle 
Emsley  Telfair's  store  at  the  Pimienta  Crossing  on  the 
Nueces. 

"  About  three  in  the  afternoon  I  throwed  my  bridle 
rein  over  a  mesquite  limb  and  walked  the  last  twenty 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  61 

yards  into  Uncle  Emsley's  store.  I  got  up  on  the  coun- 
ter and  told  Uncle  Emsley  that  the  signs  pointed  to  the 
devastation  of  the  fruit  crop  of  the  world.  In  a  min- 
ute I  had  a  bag  of  crackers  and  a  long-handled  spoon, 
with  an  open  can  each  of  apricots  and  pineapples  and 
cherries  and  greengages  beside  of  me  with  Uncle  Ems- 
ley  busy  chopping  away  with  the  hatchet  at  the  yellow 
clings.  I  was  feeling  like  Adam  before  the  apple  stam- 
pede, and  was  digging  my  spurs  into  the  side  of  the 
counter  and  working  with  my  twenty-four-inch  spoon 
when  I  happened  to  look  out  of  the  window  into  the  yard 
of  Uncle  Emsley's  house,  which  was  next  to  the  store. 

"  There  was  a  girl  standing  there  —  an  imported  girl 
with  fixings  on  —  philandering  with  a  croquet  maul  and 
amusing  herself  by  watching  my  style  of  encouraging 
the  fruit  canning  industry. 

"  I  slid  off  the  counter  and  delivered  up  my  shovel  to 
Uncle  Emsley. 

"'That's  my  niece,'  says  he;  *  Miss  Willella  Lea- 
right,  down  from  Palestine  on  a  visit.  Do  you  want 
that  I  should  make  you  acquainted? ' 

"  *  The  Holy  Land,'  I  says  to  myself,  my  thoughts 
milling  some  as  I  tried  to  run  'em  into  the  corral. 
'  Why  not  ?  There  was  sure  angels  in  Pales  —  Why 
yes,  Uncle  Emsley,'  I  says  out  loud,  *  I'd  be  awful  edi- 
fied to  meet  Miss  Learight." 

"  So  Uncle  Emsley  took  me  out  in  the  yard  and  gave 
us  each  other's  entitlements. 

"  I  never  was  shy  about  women.  I  never  could  un* 
*$erstand  why  some  men  who  can  break  a  mustang  ba-- 


62  Heart  of  the  West 

fore  breakfast  and  shave  in  the  dark,  get  all  left-handed 
and  full  of  perspiration  and  excuses  when  they  see  a 
bolt  of  calico  draped  around  what  belongs  in  it.  In- 
side of  eight  minutes  me  and  Miss  Willella  was  aggra- 
vating the  croquet  balls  around  as  amiable  as  second 
cousins.  She  gave  me  a  dig  about  the  quantity  of 
canned  fruit  I  had  eaten,  and  I  got  back  at  her,  flat- 
footed,  about  how  a  certain  lady  named  Eve  started  the 
fruit  trouble  in  the  first  free-grass  pasture  — '  Over  in 
Palestine,  wasn'  it  ?  9  says  I,  as  easy  and  pat  as  roping 
a  one-year-old. 

"  That  was  how  I  acquired  cordiality  for  the  prox- 
imities of  Miss  Willella  Learight;  and  the  disposition 
grew  larger  as  time  passed.  She  was  stopping  at  Pimi- 
enta  Crossing  for  her  health,  which  was  very  good,  and 
for  the  climate,  which  was  forty  per  cent,  hotter  than 
Palestine.  I  rode  over  to  see  her  once  every  week  for 
a  while ;  and  then  I  figured  it  out  that  if  I  doubled  the 
number  of  trips  I  would  see  her  twice  as  often. 

"  One  week  I  slipped  in  a  third  trip ;  and  that's  where 
the  pancakes  and  the  pink-eyed  snoozer  busted  into  the 
game. 

"  That  evening,  while  I  set  on  the  counter  with  a 
peach  and  two  damsons  in  my  mouth,  I  asked  Uncle 
Emsley  how  Miss  Willella  was. 

" '  Why,5  says  Uncle  Emsley,  '  she's  gone  riding  with 
Jackson  Bird,  the  sheep  man  from  over  at  Mired  Mule 
Canada.' 

"  I  swallowed  the  peach  seed  and  the  two  damson 
seeds.  I  guess  somebody  held  the  counter  by  the  bridle 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  63 

while  I  got  off ;  and  then  I  walked  out  straight  ahead  till 
I  butted  against  the  mesquite  where  my  roan  was  tied. 

"  *  She's  gone  riding,'  I  whisper  in  my  bronc's  ear, 
*  with  Birdstone  Jack,  the  hired  mule  from  Sheep  Man's 
Canada.  Did  you  get  that,  old  Leather-and-Gallops  ?  ' 

"  That  bronc  of  mine  wept,  in  his  way.  He'd  been 
raised  a  cow  pony  and  he  didn't  care  for  snoozers. 

"  I  went  back  and  said  to  Uncle  Emsley :  *  Did  you 
say  a  sheep  man  ?  * 

"  '  I  said  a  sheep  man,'  says  Uncle  again.  *  You 
must  have  heard  tell  of  Jackson  Bird.  He's  got  eight 
sections  of  grazing  and  four  thousand  head  of  the  finest 
Merinos  south  of  the  Arctic  Circle.' 

"  I  went  out  and  sat  on  the  ground  in  the  shade  of 
the  store  and  leaned  against  a  prickly  pear.  I  sifted 
sand  into  my  boots  with  unthinking  hands  while  I  solil- 
oquised a  quantity  about  this  bird  with  the  Jackson 
plumage  to  his  name. 

"  I  never  had  believed  in  harming  sheep  men.  I  see 
one,  one  day,  reading  a  Latin  grammar  on  hossback, 
and  I  never  touched  him !  They  never  irritated  me  like 
they  do  most  cowmen.  You  wouldn't  go  to  work  now, 
and  impair  and  disfigure  snoozers,  would  you,  that  eat 
on  tables  and  wear  little  shoes  and  speak  to  you  on  sub- 
jects? I  had  always  let  'em  pass,  just  as  you  would  a 
jack-rabbit;  with  a  polite  word  and  a  guess  about  the 
weather,  but  no  stopping  to  swap  canteens.  I  never 
thought  it  was  worth  while  to  be  hostile  with  a  snoozer. 
And  because  I'd  been  lenient,  and  let  'em  live,  here  was 
«me  going  around  riding  with  Miss  Willella  Learight! 


64  Heart  of  the  West 

"  An  hour  by  sun  they  come  loping  back,  and  stopped 
at  Uncle  Emsley's  gate.  The  sheep  person  helped  her 
off;  and  they  stood  throwing  each  other  sentences  all 
sp rightful  and  sagacious  for  a  while.  And  then  this 
feathered  Jackson  flies  up  in  his  saddle  and  raises  his 
little  stewpot  of  a  hat,  and  trots  off  in  the  direction  of 
his  mutton  ranch.  By  this  time  I  had  turned  the  sand 
out  of  my  boots  and  unpinned  myself  from  the  prickly 
pear ;  and  by  the  time  he  gets  half  a  mile  out  of  Pimienta, 
I  singlefoots  up  beside  him  on  my  bronc. 

"  I  said  that  snoozer  was  pink-eyed,  but  he  wasn't. 
His  seeing  arrangement  was  grey  enough,  but  his  eye- 
lashes was  pink  and  his  hair  was  sandy,  and  that  gave 
you  the  idea.  Sheep  man  ?  —  he  wasn't  more  than  a 
lamb  man,  anyhow  —  a  little  thing  with  his  neck  in- 
volved in  a  yellow  silk  handkerchief,  and  shoes  tied  up 
in  bowknots. 

"  *  Afternoon ! '  says  I  to  him.  *  You  now  ride  with 
a  equestrian  who  is  commonly  called  Dead-Moral-Cer- 
tainty Judson,  on  account  of  the  way  I  shoot.  When  I 
want  a  stranger  to  know  me  I  always  introduce  myself 
before  the  draw,  for  I  never  did  like  to  shake  hands 
with  ghosts.' 

"'Ah,'  says  he,  just  like  that — *  Ah,  I'm  glad  to 
know  you,  Mr.  Judson.  I'm  Jackson  Bird,  from  over 
at  Mired  Mule  Ranch.' 

"  Just  then  one  of  my  eyes  saw  a  roadrunner  skip- 
ping down  the  hill  with  a  young  tarantula  in  his  bill, 
and  the  other  eye  noticed  a  rabbit-hawk  sitting  on  a 
dead  limb  in  a  water-elm.  I  popped  over  one  after  the 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  65 

other  with  my  forty-five,  just  to  show  him.  *  Two  out 
of  three/  says  I.  *  Birds  just  naturally  seem  to  draw 
my  fire  wherever  I  go.' 

"  '  Nice  shooting,'  says  the  sheep  man,  without  a  flut- 
ter. '  But  don't  you  sometimes  ever  miss  the  third  shot? 
Elegant  fine  rain  that  was  last  week  for  the  young  grass, 
Mr.  Judson  ?  '  says  he. 

"  '  Willie,'  says  I,  riding  over  close  to  his  palfrey, 
*  your  infatuated  parents  may  have  denounced  you  by 
the  name  of  Jackson,  but  you  sure  moulted  into  a  twit- 
tering Willie  —  let  us  slough  off  this  here  analysis  of 
rain  and  the  elements,  and  get  down  to  talk  that  is  out- 
side the  vocabulary  of  parrots.  That  is  a  bad  habit 
you  have  got  of  riding  with  young  ladies  over  at  Pimi- 
enta. I've  known  birds,'  says  I,  '  to  be  served  on  toast 
for  less  than  that.  Miss  Willella,'  says  I,  *  don't  ever 
want  any  nest  made  out  of  sheep's  wool  by  a  tomtit  of 
the  Jacksonian  branch  of  ornithology.  Now,  are  you 
going  to  quit,  or  do  you  wish  for  to  gallop  up  against 
this  Dead-Moral-Certainty  attachment  to  my  name, 
which  is  good  for  two  hyphens  and  at  least  one  set  of 
funeral  obsequies  ?  ' 

"  Jackson  Bird  flushed  up  some,  and  then  he  laughed. 

" '  Why,  Mr.  Judson,'  says  he,  6  you've  got  the 
wrong  idea.  I've  called  on  Miss  Learight  a  few  times ; 
but  not  for  the  purpose  you  imagine.  My  object  is 
purely  a  gastronomical  one.' 

"  I  reached  for  my  gun. 

"  *  Any  coyote,'  says  I,  '  that  would  boast  of  dishon- 
curable  — ' 


66  Heart  of  the  West 

"  '  Wait  a  minute,'  says  this  Bird,  c  till  I  explain. 
"What  would  I  do  with  a  wife?  If  you  ever  saw  that 
ranch  of  mine!  I  do  my  own  cooking  and  mending. 
Eating  —  that's  all  the  pleasure  I  get  out  of  sheep  rais- 
ing. Mr.  Judson,  did  you  ever  taste  the  pancakes  that 
Miss  Learight  makes?  9 

"  *  Me  ?  No,'  I  told  him.  *  I  never  was  advised  that 
she  was  up  to  any  culinary  manoeuvres.' 

"  '  They're  golden  sunshine,'  says  he,  4  honey-browned 
by  the  ambrosial  fires  of  Epicurus.  I'd  give  two  years 
of  my  life  to  get  the  recipe  for  making  them  pancakes. 
That's  what  I  went  to  see  Miss  Learight  for,'  says  Jack- 
son Bird,  '  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  it  from  her. 
It's  an  old  recipe  that's  been  in  the  family  for  seventy- 
five  years.  They  hand  it  down  from  one  generation  to 
another,  but  they  don't  give  it  away  to  outsiders.  If 
I  could  get  that  recipe,  so  I  could  make  them  pancakes 
for  myself  on  my  ranch,  I'd  be  a  happy  man,'  says 
Bird. 

"  *  Are  you  sure,'  I  says  to  him,  *  that  it  ain't  the 
hand  that  mixes  the  pancakes  that  you're  after? ' 

"  '  Sure,'  says  Jackson.  c  Miss  Learight  is  a  mighty 
nice  girl,  but  I  can  assure  you  my  intentions  go  no 
further  than  the  gastro  — '  but  he  seen  my  hand  going 
down  to  my  holster  and  he  changed  his  similitude  — 
*  than  the  desire  to  procure  a  copy  of  the  pancake  rec- 
ipe,' he  finishes. 

"  *  You  ain't  such  a  bad  little  man,'  says  I,  trying  to 
be  fair.  *  I  was  thinking  some  of  making  orphans  of 
your  sheep,  but  I'll  let  you  fly  away  this  time.  But  you 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  67 

stick  to  pancakes,'  says  I,  '  as  close  as  the  middle  one 
of  a  stack;  and  don't  go  and  mistake  sentiments  for 
syrup,  or  there'll  be  singing  at  your  ranch,  and  you 
won't  hear  it. 

"  *  To  convince  you  that  I  am  sincere,'  says  the  sheep 
man,  '  I'll  ask  you  to  help  me.  Miss  Learight  and  you 
being  closer  friends,  maybe  she  would  do  for  you  what 
she  wouldn't  for  me.  If  you  will  get  me  a  copy  of  that 
pancake  recipe,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I'll  never  call 
upon  her  again.' 

"  c  That's  fair,'  I  says,  and  I  shook  hands  with  Jack- 
son Bird.  '  I'll  get  it  for  you  if  I  can,  and  glad  to 
oblige.'  And  he  turned  off  down  the  big  pear  flat  on 
the  Piedra,  in  the  direction  of  Mired  Mule ;  and  I 
steered  northwest  for  old  Bill  Toomey's  ranch. 

"  It  was  five  days  afterward  when  I  got  another 
chance  to  ride  over  to  Pimienta.  Miss  Willella  and  me 
passed  a  gratifying  evening  at  Uncle  Emsley's.  She 
sang  some,  and  exasperated  the  piano  quite  a  lot  with 
quotations  from  the  operas.  I  gave  imitations  of  a 
rattlesnake,  and  told  her  about  Snaky  McFee's  new  way 
of  skinning  cows,  and  described  the  trip  I  made  to  Saint 
Louis  once.  We  was  getting  along  in  one  another's 
estimations  fine.  Thinks  I,  if  Jackson  Bird  can  now 
be  persuaded  to  migrate,  I  win.  I  recollect  his  promise 
about  the  pancake  receipt,  and  I  thinks  I  will  persuade 
it  from  Miss  Willella  and  give  it  to  him;  and  then  if  I 
catches  Birdie  off  of  Mired  Mule  again,  I'll  make  him 
hop  the  twig. 

"  So,  along  about  ten  o'clock,  I  put  on  a  wheedling 


68  Heart  of  the  West 

smile  and  says  to  Miss  Willella :  '  Now,  if  there's  any- 
thing I  do  like  better  than  the  sight  of  a  red  steer  on 
green  grass  it's  the  taste  of  a  nice  hot  pancake  smoth- 
ered in  sugar-house  molasses.' 

"  Miss  Willella  gives  a  little  jump  on  the  piano  stool, 
and  looked  at  me  curious. 

"  *  Yes,'  says  she,  '  they're  real  nice.  What  did  you 
say  was  the  name  of  that  street  in  Saint  Louis,  Mr. 
Odom,  where  you  lost  your  hat  ?  ' 

"  *  Pancake  Avenue,'  says  I,  with  a  wink,  to  show  her 
that  I  was  on  about  the  family  receipt,  and  couldn't  be 
side-corralled  off  of  the  subject.  '  Come,  now,  Miss 
Willella,'  I  says ;  '  let's  hear  how  you  make  'em.  Pan- 
cakes is  just  whirling  in  my  head  like  wagon  wheels. 
Start  her  off,  now  —  pound  of  flour,  eight  dozen  eggs, 
and  so  on.  How  does  the  catalogue  of  constituents 
run?' 

" '  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  please,'  says  Miss  Will- 
ella, and  she  gives  me  a  quick  kind  of  sideways  look, 
and  slides  off  the  stool.  She  «ambled  out  into  the  other 
room,  and  directly  Uncle  Emsley  comes  in  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  with  a  pitcher  of  water.  He  turns  around  to 
get  a  glass  on  the  table,  and  I  see  a  forty-five  in  his  hip 
pocket.  *  Great  post-holes ! '  thinks  I,  6  but  here's  a 
family  thinks  a  heap  of  cooking  receipts,  protecting  it 
with  firearms.  I've  known  outfits  that  wouldn't  do  that 
much  by  a  family  feud.' 

"  *  Drink  this  here  down,'  says  Uncle  Emsley,  hand- 
ing me  the  glass  of  water.  '  You've  rid  too  far  to-day, 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  69 

Jud,  and  got  yourself  over-excited.  Try  to  think  about 
something  else  now.' 

"  c  Do  you  know  how  to  make  them  pancakes,  Uncle 
Emsley?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  Well,  I'm  not  as  apprised  in  the  anatomy  of  them 
as  some,'  says  Uncle  Emsley,  *  but  I  reckon  you  take  a 
sifter  of  plaster  of  paris  and  a  little  dough  and  saleratus 
and  corn  meal,  and  mix  'em  with  eggs  and  buttermilk  as 
usual.  Is  old  Bill  going  to  ship  beeves  to  Kansas  City 
again  this  spring,  Jud?  ' 

"  That  was  all  the  pancake  specifications  I  could  get 
that  night.  I  didn't  wonder  that  Jackson  Bird  found 
it  uphill  work.  So  I  dropped  the  subject  and  talked 
with  Uncle  Emsley  a  while  about  hollow-horn  and  cy- 
clones. And  then  Miss  Willella  came  and  said  *  Good- 
night,' and  I  hit  the  breeze  for  the  ranch. 

"  About  a  week  afterward  I  met  Jackson  Bird  riding 
out  of  Pimienta  as  I  rode  in,  and  we  stopped  in  the  road 
for  a  few  frivolous  remarks. 

"  fi  Got  the  bill  of  particulars  for  them  flapjacks  yet?  ' 
I  asked  him. 

"  '  Well,  no,'  says  Jackson.  '  I  don't  seem  to  have 
any  success  in  getting  hold  of  it.  Did  you  try?  ' 

"  c  I  did,'  says  I,  '  and  'twas  like  trying  to  dig  a  prai- 
rie dog  out  of  his  hole  with  a  peanut  hull.  That  pan- 
cake receipt  must  be  a  jookalorum,  the  way  they  hold 
on  to  it.' 

"  { I'm  most  ready  to  give  it  up,'  says  Jackson,  so  dis- 
couraged in  his  pronunciations  that  I  felt  sorry  for  him ; 


70  Heart  of  the  West 

'  but  I  did  want  to  know  how  to  make  them  pancakes  to 
eat  on  my  lonely  ranch,'  says  he.  '  I  lie  awake  at  nights 
thinking  how  good  they  are.' 

"  <  You  keep  on  trying  for  it,'  I  tells  him,  «  and  I'll 
do  the  same.  One  of  us  is  bound  to  get  a  rope  over  its 
horns  before  long.  Well,  so-long,  Jacksy.' 

"  You  see,  by  this  time  we  was  on  the  peacefullest  of 
terms.  When  I  saw  that  he  wasn't  after  Miss  Willella 
I  had  more  endurable  contemplations  of  that  sandy- 
haired  snoozer.  In  order  to  help  out  the  ambitions  of 
his  appetite  I  kept  on  trying  to  get  that  receipt  from 
Miss  Willella.  But  every  time  I  would  say  *  pan- 
cakes '  she  would  get  sort  of  remote  and  fidgety  about 
the  eye,  and  try  to  change  the  subject.  If  I  held  her 
to  it  she  would  slide  out  and  round  up  Uncle  Emsley 
with  his  pitcher  of  water  and  hip-pocket  howitzer. 

"  One  day  I  galloped  over  to  the  store  with  a  fine 
bunch  of  blue  verbenas  that  I  cut  out  of  a  herd  of  wild 
flowers  over  on  Poisoned  Dog  Prairie.  Uncle  Emsley 
looked  at  'em  with  one  eye  shut  and  says: 

"  *  Haven't  ye  heard  the  news  ?  ' 

"'Cattle  up?'  I  asks. 

"  *  Willella  and  Jackson  Bird  was  married  in  Pales- 
tine yesterday,'  says  he.  '  Just  got  a  letter  this  morn- 
ing.' 

"  I  dropped  them  flowers  in  a  cracker-barrel,  and 
let  the  news  trickle  in  my  ears  and  down  toward  my 
upper  left-hand  shirt  pocket  until  it  got  to  my  feet. 

"  *  Would  you  mind  saying  that  over  again  once 
more,  Uncle  Emsley  ? '  says  I.  *  Maybe  my  hearing 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  71 

has  got  wrong,  and  you  only  said  that  prime  heifers 
was  4.80  on  the  hoof,  or  something  like  that.' 

"  '  Married  yesterday,'  says  Uncle  Emsley,  '  and  gone 
to  Waco  and  Niagara  Falls  on  a  wedding  tour.  Why, 
didn't  you  see  none  of  the  signs  all  along?  Jackson 
Bird  has  been  courting  Willella  ever  since  that  day  he 
took  her  out  riding.' 

"  c  Then,'  says  I,  in  a  kind  of  yell,  *  what  was  all  this 
zizzaparoola  he  gives  me  about  pancakes?  Tell  me  that.9 

"  When  I  said  *  pancakes '  Uncle  Emsley  sort  of 
dodged  and  stepped  back. 

"  '  Somebody's  been  dealing  me  pancakes  from  the 
bottom  of  the  deck,'  I  says,  *  and  I'll  find  out.  I  be- 
lieve you  know.  Talk  up,'  says  I,  *  or  we'll  mix  a  pan- 
ful of  batter  right  here.' 

"  I  slid  over  the  counter  after  Uncle  Emsley.  He 
grabbed  at  his  gun,  but  it  was  in  a  drawer,  and  he 
missed  it  two  inches.  I  got  him  by  the  front  of  his 
shirt  and  shoved  him  in  a  corner. 

"  '  Talk  pancakes,'  says  I,  6  or  be  made  into  one. 
Does  Miss  Willella  make  'em?  ' 

"  '  She  never  made  one  in  her  life  and  I  never  saw 
one,'  says  Uncle  Emsley,  soothing.  *  Calm  down  now, 
Jud  —  calm  down.  You've  got  excited,  and  that 
wound  in  your  head  is  contaminating  your  sense  of  in- 
telligence. Try  not  to  think  about  pancakes.' 

"  '  Uncle  Emsley,'  says  I,  *  I'm  not  wounded  in  the 
head  except  so  far  as  my  natural  cogitative  instincts 
run  to  runts.  Jackson  Bird  told  me  he  was  calling  on 
Miss  Willella  for  the  purpose  of  finding  out  her  system 


72  Heart  of  the  West 

of  producing  pancakes,  and  he  asked  me  to  help  him 
get  the  bill  of  lading  of  the  ingredients.  I  done  so,  with 
the  results  as  you  see.  Have  I  been  sodded  down  with 
Johnson  grass  by  a  pink-eyed  snoozer,  or  what?  ' 

"  *  Slack  up  your  grip  on  my  dress  shirt/  says  Uncle 
EmslejT,  '  and  I'll  tell  you.  Yes,  it  looks  like  Jackson 
Bird  has  gone  and  humbugged  you  some.  The  day  after 
he  went  riding  with  Willella  he  came  back  and  told  me 
and  her  to  watch  out  for  you  whenever  you  got  to  talk- 
ing about  pancakes.  He  said  you  was  in  camp  once 
where  they  was  cooking  flapjacks,  and  one  of  the  fel- 
lows cut  you  over  the  head  with  a  frying  pan.  Jackson 
said  that  whenever  you  got  overhot  or  excited  that 
wound  hurt  you  and  made  you  kind  of  crazy,  and  you 
went  raving  about  pancakes.  He  told  us  to  just  get  you 
worked  off  of  the  subject  and  soothed  down,  and  you 
wouldn't  be  dangerous.  So,  me  and  Willella  done  the 
best  by  you  we  knew  how.  Well,  well,'  says  Uncle  Ems- 
ley,  *  that  Jackson  Bird  is  sure  a  seldom  kind  of  a 
snoozer.' " 

During  the  progress  of  Jud's  story  he  had  been  slowly 
but  deftly  combining  certain  portions  of  the  contents  of 
his  sacks  and  cans.  Toward  the  close  of  it  he  set  before 
me  the  finished  product  —  a  pair  of  red-hot,  rich-hued 
pancakes  on  a  tin  plate.  From  some  secret  hoarding 
place  he  also  brought  a  lump  of  excellent  butter  and  t± 
bottle  of  golden  syrup. 

"  How  long  ago  did  these  things  happen?  "  I  asked 
him. 

"  Three  years,"  said  Jud.     "  They're  living  on  the 


The  Pimienta  Pancakes  73 

Mired  Mule  Ranch  now.  But  I  haven't  seen  either  of 
'em  since.  They  say  Jackson  Bird  was  fixing  his  ranch 
up  fine  with  rocking  chairs  and  window  curtains  all  the 
time  he  was  putting  me  up  the  pancake  tree.  Oh,  I  got 
over  it  after  a  while.  But  the  boys  kept  the  racket  up." 

"  Did  you  make  these  cakes  by  the  famous  recipe  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  wasn't  no  receipt?  "  said  Jud. 
"  The  boys  hollered  pancakes  till  they  got  pancake 
hungry,  and  I  cut  this  recipe  out  of  a  newspaper.  How 
does  the  truck  taste?  " 

"  They're  delicious,"  I  answered.  "  Why  don't  you 
have  some,  too,  Jud  ?  " 

I  was  sure  I  heard  a  sigh. 

"  Me?  "  said  Jud.    "  I  don't  never  eat  'em." 


VI 
SEATS  OF  THE  HAUGHTY 

GrOLDEN  by  day  and  silver  by  night,  a  new  trail  now 
leads  to  us  across  the  Indian  Ocean.  Dusky  kings  and 
princes  have  found  out  our  Bombay  of  the  West;  and 
few  be  their  trails  that  do  not  lead  down  Broadway  on 
their  journey  for  to  admire  and  for  to  see. 

If  chance  should  ever  lead  you  near  a  hotel  that  tran- 
siently shelters  some  one  of  these  splendid  touring  gran- 
dees, I  counsel  you  to  seek  Lucullu?  Polk  among  the 
republican  tuft-hunters  that  besiege  its  entrances.  He 
will  be  there.  You  will  know  him  by  his  red,  alert,  Well- 
ington-nosed face,  by  his  manner  of  nervous  caution 
mingled  with  determination,  by  his  assumed  promoter's 
or  broker's  air  of  busy  impatience,  and  by  his  bright- 
red  necktie,  gallantly  redressing  the  wrongs  of  his  mal- 
treated blue  serge  suit,  like  a  battle  standard  still  waving 
above  a  lost  cause.  I  found  him  profitable ;  and  so  may 
you.  When  you  do  look  for  him,  look  among  the  light- 
horse  troop  of  Bedouins  that  besiege  the  picket-line  of 
the  travelling  potentate's  guards  and  secretaries  — 
among  the  wild-eyed  genii  of  Arabian  Afternoons  that 
gather  to  make  astounding  and  egregious  demands  upon 

the  prince's  coffers. 

74 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  75 

I  first  saw  Mr.  Polk  coming  down  the  steps  of  the 
hotel  at  which  sojourned  His  Highness  the  Gaekwar  of 
Baroda,  most  enlightened  of  the  Mahratta  princes,  who, 
of  late,  ate  bread  and  salt  in  our  Metropolis  of  the  Oc- 
cident. 

Lucullus  moved  rapidly,  as  though  propelled  by  some 
potent  moral  force  that  imminently  threatened  to  be- 
come physical.  Behind  him  closely  followed  the  impetus 
—  a  hotel  detective,  if  ever  white  Alpine  hat,  hawk's 
nose,  implacable  watch  chain,  and  loud  refinement  of 
manner  spoke  the  truth.  A  brace  of  uniformed  porters 
at  his  heels  preserved  the  smooth  decorum  of  the  hotel, 
repudiating  by  their  air  of  disengagement  any  suspicion 
that  they  formed  a  reserve  squad  of  ejectment. 

Safe  on  the  sidewalk,  Lucullus  Polk  turned  and  shook 
a  freckled  fist  at  the  caravansary.  And,  to  my  joy,  he 
began  to  breathe  deep  invective  in  strange  words : 

"Rides  in  howdahs,  does  he?"  he  cried  loudly  and 
sneeringly.  "  Rides  on  elephants  in  howdahs  and  calls 
himself  a  prince !  Kings  —  yah !  Comes  over  here  and 
talks  horse  till  you  would  think  he  was  a  president ;  and 
then  goes  home  and  rides  in  a  private  dining-room 
strapped  onto  an  elephant.  Well,  well,  well !  " 

The  ejecting  committee  quietly  retired.  The  scorner 
of  princes  turned  to  me  and  snapped  his  fingers. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?  "  he  shouted  derisively. 
"  The  Gaekwar  of  Baroda  rides  on  an  elephant  in  a  how- 
dah!  And  there's  old  Bikram  Shamsher  Jang  scorch- 
ing up  and  down  the  pig-paths  of  Khatmandu  on  a 
motor-cycle.  Wouldn't  that  maharajah  you?  And  the 


76  Heart  of  the  West 

Shah  of  Persia,  that  ought  to  have  been  Muley-on-the- 
spot  for  at  least  three,  he's  got  the  palanquin  habit.  And 
that  funny-hat  prince  from  Korea  —  wouldn't  you  think 
he  could  afford  to  amble  around  on  a  milk-white  palfrey 
once  in  a  dynasty  or  two?  Nothing  doing!  His  idea  of 
a  Balaklava  charge  is  to  tuck  his  skirts  under  him  and 
do  his  mile  in  six  days  over  the  hog-wallows  of  Seoul  in 
a  bull-cart.  That's  the  kind  of  visiting  potentates  that 
come  to  this  country  now.  It's  a  hard  deal,  friend." 

I  murmured  a  few  words  of  sympathy.  But  it  was 
uncomprehending,  for  I  did  not  know  his  grievance 
against  the  rulers  who  flash,  meteor-like,  now  and  then 
upon  our  shores. 

"  The  last  one  I  sold,"  continued  the  displeased  one, 
"  was  to  that  three-horse-tailed  Turkish  pasha  that 
came  over  a  year  ago.  Five  hundred  dollars  he  paid 
for  it,  easy.  I  says  to  his  executioner  or  secretary  — 
he  was  a  kind  of  a  Jew  or  a  Chinaman  —  *  His  Turkey 
Giblets  is  fond  of  horses,  then?' 

"  *  Him  ?  '  says  the  secretary.  '  Well,  no.  He's  got 
a  big,  fat  wife  in  the  harem  named  Bad  Dora  that  he 
don't  like.  I  believe  he  intends  to  saddle  her  up  and  ride 
her  up  and  down  the  board-walk  in  the  Bulbul  Gardens 
a  few  times  every  day.  You  haven't  got  a  pair  of  extra 
long  spurs  you  could  throw  in  on  the  deal,  have  you  ?  * 
Yes,  sir ;  there's  mighty  few  real  rough-riders  among  the 
royal  sports  these  days." 

As  soon  as  Lucullus  Polk  got  cool  enough  I  picked 
him  up,  and  with  no  greater  effort  than  you  would  em- 
ploy in  persuading  a  drowning  man  to  clutch  a  straw,  I 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  77 

inveigled  him  into  accompanying  me  to  a  cool  corner  in 
a  dim  cafe. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  men-servants  set  before  us 
brewage ;  and  Lucullus  Polk  spake  unto  me,  relating  the 
wherefores  of  his  beleaguering  the  antechambers  of  the 
princes  of  the  earth. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  S.  A.  &  A.  P.  Railroad 
in  Texas  ?  Well,  that  don't  stand  for  Samaritan  Actor's 
Aid  Philanthropy.  I  was  down  that  way  managing  a 
summer  bunch  of  the  gum  and  syntax-chewers  that  play 
the  Idlewild  Parks  in  the  Western  hamlets.  Of  course, 
we  went  to  pieces  when  the  soubrette  ran  away  with  a 
prominent  barber  of  Beeville.  I  don't  know  what  be- 
came of  the  rest  of  the  company.  I  believe  there  were 
some  salaries  due ;  and  the  last  I  saw  of  the  troupe  was 
when  I  told  them  that  forty-three  cents  was  all  the 
treasury  contained.  I  say  I  never  saw  any  of  them  after 
that;  but  I  heard  them  for  about  twenty  minutes.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  look  back.  But  after  dark  I  came 
out  of  the  woods  and  struck  the  S.  A.  &  A.  P.  agent  for 
means  of  transportation.  He  at  once  extended  to  me  the 
courtesies  of  the  entire  railroad,  kindly  warning  me,  how- 
ever, not  to  get  aboard  any  of  the  rolling  stock. 

"  About  ten  the  next  morning  I  steps  off  the  ties 
into  a  village  that  calls  itself  Atascosa  City.  I  bought 
a  thirty-cent  breakfast  and  a  ten-cent  cigar,  and  stood 
on  Main  Street  jingling  the  three  pennies  in  my  pocket 
* —  dead  broke.  A  man  in  Texas  with  only  three  cents  in 
his  pocket  is  no  better  off  than  a  man  that  has  no  money 
and  owes  two  cents. 


78  Heart  of  the  West 

"  One  of  luck's  favourite  tricks  is  to  soak  a  man  for 
his  last  dollar  so  quick  that  he  don't  have  time  to  look  it. 
There  I  was  in  a  swell  St.  Louis  tailor-made,  blue-and- 
green  plaid  .suit,  and  an  eighteen-carat  sulphate-of- 
copper  scarf-pin,  with  no  hope  in  sight  except  the  two 
great  Texas  industries,  the  cotton  fields  and  grading 
new  railroads.  I  never  picked  cotton,  and  I  never  cot- 
toned to  a  pick,  so  the  outlook  had  ultramarine  edges. 

"  All  of  a  sudden,  while  I  was  standing  on  the  edge  of 
the  wooden  sidewalk,  down  out  of  the  sky  falls  two  fine 
gold  watches  into  the  middle  of  the  street.  One  hits  a 
chunk  of  mud  and  sticks.  The  other  falls  hard  and 
flies  open,  making  a  fine  drizzle  of  little  springs  and 
screws  and  wheels.  I  looks  up  for  a  balloon  or  an  air- 
ship; but  not  seeing  any,  I  steps  off  the  sidewalk  to 
investigate. 

"  But  I  hear  a  couple  of  yells  and  see  two  men  run- 
ning up  the  street  in  leather  overalls  and  high-heeled 
boots  and  cartwheel  hats.  One  man  is  six  or  eight  feet 
high,  with  open-plumbed  joints  and  a  heartbroken  cast 
of  countenance.  He  picks  up  the  watch  that  has  stuck 
in  the  mud.  The  other  man,  who  is  little,  with  pink  hair 
and  white  eyes,  goes  for  the  empty  case,  and  says,  6 1 
win.'  Then  the  elevated  pessimist  goes  down  under  his 
leather  leg-holsters  and  hands  a  handful  of  twenty- 
dollar  gold  pieces  to  his  albino  friend.  I  don't  know 
how  much  money  it  was ;  it  looked  as  big  as  an  earth- 
quake-relief fund  to  me. 

" '  I'll  have  this  here  case  filled  up  with  works,'  says 
Shorty,  '  and  throw  you  again  for  five  hundred.' 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  79 

"  *  I'm  your  company,'  says  the  high  man.  '  I'll  meet 
you  at  the  Smoked  Dog  Saloon  an  hour  from  now.' 

"  The  little  man  hustles  away  with  a  kind  of  Swiss 
movement  toward  a  jewelry  store.  The  heartbroken  per- 
son stoops  over  and  takes  a  telescopic  view  of  my  haber- 
dashery. 

"  *  Them's  a  mighty  slick  outfit  of  habiliments  you 
have  got  on,  Mr.  Man,'  says  he.  *  I'll  bet  a  hoss  you 
never  acquired  the  right,  title,  and  interest  in  and  to 
them  clothes  in  Atascosa  City.' 

"  *  Why,  no,'  says  I,  being  ready  enough  to  exchange 
personalities  with  this  moneyed  monument  of  melan- 
choly. '  I  had  this  suit  tailored  from  a  special  line 
of  coatericks,  vestures,  and  pantings  in  St.  Louis. 
Would  you  mind  putting  me  sane,'  says  I,  *  on  this 
watch-throwing  contest?  I've  been  used  to  seeing  time- 
pieces treated  with  more  politeness  and  esteem  —  except 
women's  watches,  of  course,  which  by  nature  they  abuse 
by  cracking  walnuts  with  'em  and  having  'em  taken 
showing  in  tintype  pictures.' 

"  *  Me  and  George,'  he  explains,  '  are  up  from  the 
ranch,  having  a  spell  of  fun.  Up  to  last  month  we 
owned  four  sections  of  watered  grazing  down  on  the 
San  Miguel.  But  along  comes  one  of  these  oil  pros- 
pectors and  begins  to  bore.  He  strikes  a  gusher  that 
flows  out  twenty  thousand  —  or  maybe  it  was  twenty 
million  —  barrels  of  oil  a  day.  And  me  and  George 
gets  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  —  sev- 
enty-five thousand  dollars  apiece  —  for  the  land.  So 
now  and  then  we  saddles  up  and  hits  the  breeze  for 


80  Heart  of  the  West 

Atascosa  City  for  a  few  days  of  excitement  and  dam- 
age. Here's  a  little  bunch  of  the  dlnero  that  I  drawed 
out  of  the  bank  this  morning,'  says  he,  and  shows  a  roll 
of  twenties  and  fifties  as  big  around  as  a  sleeping-car 
pillow.  The  yellowbacks  glowed  like  a  sunset  on  the 
gable  end  of  John  D.'s  barn.  My  knees  got  weak,  and 
I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  board  sidewalk. 

"  *  You  must  have  knocked  around  a  right  smart,' 
goes  on  this  oil  Grease-us.  *  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
you  have  saw  towns  more  livelier  than  what  Atascosa 
City  is.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  there  ought  to  be 
some  more  ways  of  having  a  good  time  than  there  is 
here,  'specially  when  you've  got  plenty  of  money  and 
don't  mind  spending  it.' 

"  Then  this  Mother  Gary's  chick  of  the  desert  sits 
down  by  me  and  we  hold  a  conversationfest.  It  seems 
that  he  was  money-poor.  He'd  lived  in  ranch  camps 
all  his  life;  and  he  confessed  to  me  that  his  supreme 
idea  of  luxury  was  to  ride  into  camp,  tired  out  from  a 
round-up,  eat  a  peck  of  Mexican  beans,  hobble  his  brains 
with  a  pint  of  raw  whisky,  and  go  to  sleep  with  his 
boots  for  a  pillow.  When  this  barge-load  of  unex- 
pected money  came  to  him  and  his  pink  but  perky  part- 
ner, George,  and  they  hied  themselves  to  this  clump  of 
outhouses  called  Atascosa  City,  you  know  what  hap- 
pened to  them.  They  had  money  to  buy  anything  they 
wanted;  but  they  didn't  know  what  to  want.  Their 
ideas  of  spendthriftiness  were  limited  to  three  — 
whisky,  saddles,  and  gold  watches.  If  there  was  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  to  throw  away  fortunes  on,  they 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  81 

had  never  heard  about  it.  So,  when  they  wanted  to 
have  a  hot  time,  they'd  ride  into  town  and  get  a  city 
directory  and  stand  in  front  of  the  principal  saloon 
and  call  up  the  population  alphabetically  for  free  drinks. 
Then  they  would  order  three  or  four  new  California 
saddles  from  the  storekeeper,  and  play  crack-loo  on 
the  sidewalk  with  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces.  Betting 
who  could  throw  his  gold  watch  the  farthest  was  an 
inspiration  of  George's ;  but  even  that  was  getting  to  be 
monotonous. 

"  Was  I  on  to  the  opportunity?       Listen. 

"  In  thirty  minutes  I  had  dashed  off  a  word  picture 
of  metropolitan  joys  that  made  life  in  Atascosa  City 
look  as  dull  as  a  trip  to  Coney  Island  with  your  own 
wife.  In  ten  minutes  more  we  shook  hands  on  an  agree- 
ment that  I  was  to  act  as  his  guide,  interpreter  and 
friend  in  and  to  the  aforesaid  wassail  and  amenity.  And 
Solomon  Mills,  which  was  his  name,  was  to  pay  all  ex- 
penses for  a  month.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  I  had 
made  good  as  director-general  of  the  rowdy  life,  he 
was  to  pay  me  one  thousand  dollars.  And  then,  to 
clinch  the  bargain,  we  called  the  roll  of  Atascosa  City 
and  put  all  of  its  citizens  except  the  ladies  and  minors 
under  the  table,  except  one  man  named  Horace  Wester- 
velt  St.  Clair.  Just  for  that  we  bought  a  couple  of 
hatfuls  of  cheap  silver  watches  and  egged  him  out  of 
town  with  'em.  We  wound  up  by  dragging  the  harness- 
maker  out  of  bed  and  setting  him  to  work  on  three  new 
saddles ;  and  then  we  went  to  sleep  across  the  railroad 
track  at  the  depot,  just  to  annoy  the  S.  A.  &  A.  P. 


32  Heart  of  the  West 

Think  of  having  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  and  try* 
ing  to  avoid  the  disgrace  of  dying  rich  in  a  town  like 
that! 

"  The  next  day  George,  who  was  married  or  some- 
thing, started  back  to  the  ranch.  Me  and  Solly,  as 
I  now  called  him,  prepared  to  shake  off  our  moth  balls 
and  wing  our  way  against  the  arc-lights  of  the  joyous 
and  tuneful  East. 

"  *  No  way-stops,'  says  I  to  Solly,  '  except  long 
enough  to  get  you  barbered  and  haberdashed.  This 
is  no  Texas  feet  shampetter,'  says  I,  '  where  you  eat 
chili-concarne-con-huevos  and  then  holler  "  Whoopee !  '* 
across  the  plaza.  We're  now  going  against  the  real 
high  life.  We're  going  to  mingle  with  the  set  that 
carries  a  Spitz,  wears  spats,  and  hits  the  ground  in 
high  spots/ 

"  Solly  puts  six  thousand  dollars  in  century  bills  in 
one  pocket  of  his  brown  ducks,  and  bills  of  lading  for 
ten  thousand  dollars  on  Eastern  banks  in  another.  Then 
I  resume  diplomatic  relations  with  the  S.  A.  &  A.  P.,  and 
we  hike  in  a  northwesterly  direction  on  our  circuitous 
route  to  the  spice  gardens  of  the  Yankee  Orient. 

"  We  stopped  in  San  Antonio  long  enough  for  Solly 
to  buy  some  clothes,  and  eight  rounds  of  drinks  for  the 
guests  and  employees  of  the  Menger  Hotel,  and  order 
four  Mexican  saddles  with  silver  trimmings  and  white 
Angora  suaderos  to  be  shipped  down  to  the  ranch. 
From  there  we  made  a  big  jump  to  St.  Louis.  We  got 
there  in  time  for  dinner ;  and  I  put  our  thumb-prints  on 
the  register  of  the  most  expensive  hotel  in  the  city. 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  83 

"  *  Now,'  says  I  to  Solly,  with  a  wink  at  myself, 
6  here's  the  first  dinner-station  we've  struck  where  we 
can  get  a  real  good  plate  of  beans.'  And  while  he  was 
up  in  his  room  trying  to  draw  water  out  of  the  gas-pipe, 
I  got  one  finger  in  the  buttonhole  of  the  head  waiter's 
Tuxedo,  drew  him  apart,  inserted  a  two-dollar  bill,  and 
closed  him  up  again. 

"  '  Frankoyse,'  says  I,  6 1  have  a  pal  here  for  dinner 
that's  been  subsisting  for  years  on  cereals  and  short 
stogies.  You  see  the  chef  and  order  a  dinner  for  us 
such  as  you  serve  to  Dave  Francis  and  the  general  pas- 
senger agent  of  the  Iron  Mountain  when  they  eat  here. 
We've  got  more  than  Bernhardt's  tent  full  of  money; 
and  we  want  the  nose-bags  crammed  with  all  the  Chief 
Deveries  de  cuisine.  Object  is  no  expense.  Now,  show 
us.' 

"  At  six  o'clock  me  and  Solly  sat  down  to  dinner. 
Spread!  There's  nothing  been  seen  like  it  since  the 
Cambon  snack.  It  was  all  served  at  once.  The  chef 
called  it  dmnay  a  la  poker.  It's  a  famous  thing  among 
the  gormands  of  the  West.  The  dinner  comes  in  threes 
of  a  kind.  There  was  guinea-fowls,  guinea-pigs,  and 
Guinness's  stout;  roast  veal,  mock  turtle  soup,  and 
chicken  pate;  shad-roe,  caviar,  and  tapioca;  canvas- 
back  duck,  canvas-back  ham,  and  cotton-tail  rabbit ; 
Philadelphia  capon,  fried  snails,  and  sloe-gin  —  and  so 
on,  in  threes.  The  idea  was  that  you  eat  nearly  all  you 
can  of  them,  and  then  the  waiter  takes  away  the  dis- 
card and  gives  you  pears  to  fill  on. 

"  I  was  sure  Solly  would  be  tickled  to  death  with 


84  Heart  of  the  West 

these  hands,  after  the  bobtail  flushes  he'd  been  eating 
on  the  ranch ;  and  I  was  a  little  anxious  that  he  should, 
for  I  didn't  remember  his  having  honoured  my  efforts 
with  a  smile  since  we  left  Atascosa  City. 

"  We  were  in  the  main  dining-room,  and  there  was 
a  fine-dressed  crowd  there,  all  talking  loud  and  enjoyable 
about  the  two  St.  Louis  topics,  the  water  supply  and 
the  colour  line.  They  mix  the  two  subjects  so  fast 
that  strangers  often  think  they  are  discussing  water- 
colours  ;  and  that  has  given  the  old  town  something  of  a 
rep  as  an  art  centre.  And  over  in  the  corner  was  a  fine 
brass  band  playing;  and  now,  thinks  I,  Solly  will  be- 
come conscious  of  the  spiritual  oats  of  life  nourishing 
and  exhilarating  his  system.  But  nong,  mong  frang. 

"  He  gazed  across  the  table  at  me.  There  was  four 
square  yards  of  it,  looking  like  the  path  of  a  cyclone 
that  has  wandered  through  a  stock-yard,  a  poultry- 
farm,  a  vegetable-garden,  and  an  Irish  linen  mill.  Solly 
gets  up  and  comes  around  to  me. 

"  '  Luke,'  says  he,  6  I'm  pretty  hungry  after  our  ride. 
I  thought  you  said  they  had  some  beans  here.  I'm  go- 
ing out  and  get  something  I  can  eat.  You  can  stay  and 
monkey  with  this  artificial  layout  of  grub  if  you  want  to.* 

"  '  Wait  a  minute,'  says  I. 

"  I  called  the  waiter,  and  slapped  '  S.  Mills '  on  the 
back  of  the  check  for  thirteen  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 

" '  What  do  you  mean,'  says  I,  *  by  serving  gentle- 
men with  a  lot  of  truck  only  suitable  for  deck-hands 
on  a  Mississippi  steamboat?  We're  going  out  to  get 
something  decent  to  eat.' 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  85 

*'  I  walked  up  the  street  with  the  unhappy  plains- 
man. He  saw  a  saddle-shop  open,  and  some  of  the 
sadness  faded  from  his  eyes.  We  went  in,  and  he  or- 
dered and  paid  for  two  more  saddles  —  one  with  a  solid 
silver  horn  and  nails  and  ornaments  and  a  six-inch 
border  of  rhinestones  and  imitation  rubies  around  the 
flaps.  The  other  one  had  to  have  a  gold-mounted  horn, 
quadruple-plated  stirrups,  and  the  leather  inlaid  with 
silver  beadwork  wherever  it  would  stand  it.  Eleven 
hundred  dollars  the  two  cost  him. 

"  Then  he  goes  out  and  heads  toward  the  river,  fol- 
lowing his  nose.  In  a  little  side  street,  where  there 
was  no  street  and  no  sidewalks  and  no  houses,  he  finds 
what  he  is  looking  for.  We  go  into  a  shanty  and  sit  on 
high  stools  among  stevedores  and  boatmen,  and  eat 
beans  with  tin  spoons.  Yes,  sir,  beans  —  beans  boiled 
with  salt  pork. 

" 6 1  kind  of  thought  we'd  strike  some  over  this 
way,'  says  Solly. 

"  <  Delightful,'  says  I,  <  That  stylish  hotel  grub  may 
appeal  to  some;  but  for  me,  give  me  the  husky  table 
d'goat.' 

"  When  we  had  succumbed  to  the  beans  I  leads  him 
out  of  the  tarpaulin-steam  under  a  lamp  post  and  pulls 
out  a  daily  paper  with  the  amusement  column  folded 
out. 

"  '  But  now,  what  ho  for  a  merry  round  of  pleas- 
ure,' says  I.  6  Here's  one  of  Hall  Caine's  shows,  and 
a  stock-yard  company  in  "  Hamlet,"  and  skating  at 
the  Hollowhorn  Rink,  and  Sarah  Bernhardt,  and  the 


86  Heart  of  the  West 

Shapely  Syrens  Burlesque  Company.  I  should  think, 
now,  that  the  Shapely — ' 

"  But  what  does  this  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise  man 
do  but  reach  his  arms  up  to  the  second-story  windows 
and  gape  noisily. 

"  '  Reckon  I'll  be  going  to  bed,'  says  he ;  '  it's  about 
my  time.  St.  Louis  is  a  kind  of  quiet  place,  ain't  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  says  I ;  *  ever  since  the  railroads  ran 
in  here  the  town's  been  practically  ruined.  And  the 
building-and-loan  associations  and  the  fair  have  about 
killed  it.  Guess  we  might  as  well  go  to  bed.  Wait  till 
you  see  Chicago,  though.  Shall  we  get  tickets  for  the 
Big  Breeze  to-morrow  ?  ' 

"  *  Mought  as  well,'  says  Solly.  '  I  reckon  all  these 
towns  are  about  alike.' 

"  Well,  maybe  the  wise  cicerone  and  personal  con- 
ductor didn't  fall  hard  in  Chicago!  Loolooville-on-the- 
Lake  is  supposed  to  have  one  or  two  things  in  it  cal- 
culated to  keep  the  rural  visitor  awake  after  the  curfew 
rings.  But  not  for  the  grass-fed  man  of  the  pampas  1 
I  tried  him  with  theatres,  rides  in  automobiles,  sails  on 
the  lake,  champagne  suppers,  and  all  those  little  in- 
ventions that  hold  the  simple  life  in  check;  but  in  vain. 
Solly  grew  sadder  day  by  day.  And  I  got  fearful  about 
my  salary,  and  knew  I  must  play  my  trump  card.  So 
I  mentioned  New  York  to  him,  and  informed  him  that 
these  Western  towns  were  no  more  than  gateways  to  the 
great  walled  city  of  the  whirling  dervishes. 

"  After  I  bought  the  tickets  I  missed  Solly.  I  knew 
bis  habits  by  then ;  so  in  a  couple  of  hours  I  found  him 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  87 

in  a  saddle-shop.  They  had  some  new  ideas  there  in 
the  way  of  trees  and  girths  that  had  strayed  down  from 
the  Canadian  mounted  police;  and  Solly  was  so  inter- 
ested that  he  almost  looked  reconciled  to  live.  He  in- 
vested about  nine  hundred  dollars  in  there. 

66  At  the  depot  I  telegraphed  a  cigar-store  man  I 
knew  in  New  York  to  meet  me  at  the  Twenty-third  Street 
ferry  with  a  list  of  all  the  saddle-stores  in  the  city.  I 
wanted  to  know  where  to  look  for  Solly  when  he  got  lost. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  happened  in  New  York. 
I  says  to  myself :  *  Friend  Heherezade,  you  want  to 
get  busy  and  make  Bagdad  look  pretty  to  the  sad  sultan 
of  the  sour  countenance,  or  it'll  be  the  bowstring  for 
yours.*  But  I  never  had  any  doubt  I  could  do  it. 

"  I  began  with  him  like  you'd  feed  a  starving  man. 
I  showed  him  the  horse-cars  on  Broadway  and  the  Staten 
Island  ferry-boats.  And  then  I  piled  up  the  sensations 
on  him,  but  always  keeping  a  lot  of  warmer  ones  up 
my  sleeve. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  third  day  he  looked  like  a  com- 
posite picture  of  five  thousand  orphans  too  late  to  catch 
a  picnic  steamboat,  and  I  was  wilting  down  a  collar 
every  two  hours  wondering  how  I  could  please  him  and 
whether  I  was  going  to  get  my  thou.  He  went  to  sleep 
looking  at  the  Brooklyn  Bridge ;  he  disregarded  the  sky- 
scrapers above  the  third  story;  it  took  three  ushers  to 
wake  him  up  at  the  liveliest  vaudeville  in  town. 

66  Once  I  thought  I  had  him.  I  nailed  a  pair  of  cuffs 
on  him  one  morning  before  he  was  awake ;  and  I  dragged 
him  that  evening  to  the  palm-cage  of  one  of  the  biggest 


88  Heart  of  the  West 

hotels  in  the  city  —  to  see  the  Johnnies  and  the  Alice* 
sit-by-the-hours.  They  were  out  in  numerous  quanti- 
ties, with  the  fat  of  the  land  showing  in  their  clothes. 
While  we  were  looking  them  over,  Solly  divested  him- 
self of  a  fearful,  rusty  kind  of  laugh  —  like  moving 
a  folding  bed  with  one  roller  broken.  It  was  his  first  in 
two  weeks,  and  it  gave  me  hope. 

"  '  Right  you  are,'  says  I.  '  They're  a  funny  lot  of 
post-cards,  aren't  they  ?  ' 

" '  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  them  dudes  and  culls 
on  the  hoof,'  says  he.  '  I  was  thinking  of  the  time  me 
and  George  put  sheep-dip  in  Horsehead  Johnson's 
whisky.  I  wish  I  was  back  in  Atascosa  City,'  says  he. 

"  I  felt  a  cold  chill  run  down  my  back.  *  Me  to  play 
and  mate  in  one  move,'  says  I  to  myself. 

"  I  made  Solly  promise  to  stay  in  the  cafe  for  half 
an  hour  and  I  hiked  out  in  a  cab  to  Lolabelle  Dela- 
tour's  flat  on  Forty-third  Street.  I  knew  her  well.  She 
was  a  chorus-girl  in  a  Broadway  musical  comedy. 

" '  Jane,'  says  I  when  I  found  her,  '  I've  got  a  friend 
from  Texas  here.  He's  all  right,  but  —  well,  he  car- 
ries weight.  I'd  like  to  give  him  a  little  whirl  after 
the  show  this  evening  —  bubbles,  you  know,  and  a  buzz 
out  to  a  casino  for  the  whitebait  and  pickled  walnuts. 
Is  it  a  go?  ' 

"  '  Can  he  sing?  '  asks  Lolabelle. 

"  *  You  know,'  says  I,  '  that  I  wouldn't  take  him  away 
from  home  unless  his  notes  were  good.  He's  got  pots 
of  money  —  bean-pots  full  of  it.' 

"  '  Bring  him  around  after  the  second  act,'  says  Lola- 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  89 

belle,  '  and  I'll  examine  his  credentials  and  securi- 
ties.' 

"  So  about  ten  o'clock  that  evening  I  led  Solly  to 
Miss  Delatour's  dressing-room,  and  her  maid  let  us  in. 
In  ten  minutes  in  comes  Lolabelle,  fresh  from  the  stage, 
looking  stunning  in  the  costume  she  wears  when  she 
steps  from  the  ranks  of  the  lady  grenadiers  and  says  to 
the  king,  '  Welcome  to  our  May-day  revels.'  And  you 
can  bet  it  wasn't  the  way  she  spoke  the  lines  that  got 
her  the  part. 

"  As  soon  as  Solly  saw  her  he  got  up  and  walked 
straight  out  through  the  stage  entrance  into  the  street. 
I  followed  him.  Lolabelle  wasn't  paying  my  salary. 
I  wondered  whether  anybody  was. 

" '  Luke,'  says  Solly,  outside,  *  that  was  an  awful 
mistake.  We  must  have  got  into  the  lady's  private 
room.  I  hope  I'm  gentleman  enough  to  do  anything 
possible  in  the  way  of  apologies.  Do  you  reckon  she'd 
ever  forgive  us  ?  ' 

"  She  may  forget  it,'  says  I.  *  Of  course  it  was  a 
mistake.  Let's  go  find  some  beans.' 

"  That's  the  way  it  went.  But  pretty  soon  after- 
ward Solly  failed  to  show  up  at  dinner  time  for  several 
days.  I  cornered  him.  He  confessed  that  he  had 
found  a  restaurant  on  Third  Avenue  where  they  cooked 
beans  in  Texas  style.  I  made  him  take  me  there.  The 
minute  I  set  foot  inside  the  door  I  threw  up  my  hands. 

66  There  was  a  young  woman  at  the  desk,  and  Solly 
introduced  me  to  her.  And  then  we  sat  down  and 
had  beans. 


90  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Yes,  sir,  sitting  at  the  desk  was  the  kind  of  a  young 
woman  that  can  catch  any  man  in  the  world  as  easy 
as  lifting  a  finger.  There's  a  way  of  doing  it.  She 
knew.  I  saw  her  working  it.  She  was  healthy-look- 
ing and  plain  dressed.  She  had  her  hair  drawn  back 
from  her  forehead  and  face  —  no  curls  or  frizzes ;  that's 
the  way  she  looked.  Now  I'll  tell  you  the  way  they 
work  the  game;  it's  simple.  When  she  wants  a  man, 
she  manages  it  so  that  every  time  he  looks  at  her  he 
finds  her  looking  at  him.  That's  all. 

"  The  next  evening  Solly  was  to  go  to  Coney  Island 
with  me  at  seven.  At  eight  o'clock  he  hadn't  showed 
up.  I  went  out  and  found  a  cab.  I  felt  sure  there 
was  something  wrong. 

"  *  Drive  to  the  Back  Home  Restaurant  on  Third 
Avenue,'  says  I.  *  And  if  I  don't  find  what  I  want 
there,  take  in  these  saddle-shops.'  I  handed  him  the 
list. 

"  *  Boss,'  says  the  cabby,  *  I  et  a  steak  in  that  restau- 
rant once.  If  you're  real  hungry,  I  advise  you  to  try 
the  saddle-shops  first.' 

66  '  I'm  a  detective,'  says  I,  *  and  I  don't  eat.  Hurry 
up!' 

"  As  soon  as  I  got  to  the  restaurant  I  felt  in  the 
lines  of  my  palms  that  I  should  beware  of  a  tall,  red, 
damfool  man,  and  I  was  going  to  lose  a  sum  of  money. 

"  Solly  wasn't  there.  Neither  was  the  smooth-haired 
lady. 

"  I  waited ;  and  in  an  hour  they  came  in  a  cab  and 
got  out,  hand  in  hand.  I  asked  Solly  to  step  around 


Seats  of  the  Haughty  91 

the  corner  for  a  few  words.  He  was  grinning  clear 
across  his  face;  but  I  had  not  administered  the  grin. 

"  *  She's  the  greatest  that  ever  sniffed  the  breeze/ 
says  he. 

"  *  Congrats,'  says  I.  '  I'd  like  to  have  my  thousand 
now,  if  you  please.' 

"  «  Well,  Luke,'  says  he,  «  I  don't  know  that  I've  had 
such  a  skyhoodlin'  fine  time  under  your  tutelage  and 
dispensation.  But  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you  —  I'll 
do  the  best  I  can,'  he  repeats.  *  Me  and  Miss  Skinner 
was  married  an  hour  ago.  We're  leaving  for  Texas 
in  the  morning.' 

"  '  Great ! '  says  I.  6  Consider  yourself  covered  with 
rice  and  Congress  gaiters.  But  don't  let's  tie  so  many 
satin  bows  on  our  business  relations  that  we  lose  sight 
of  'em.  How  about  my  honorarium  ?  ' 

"  '  Missis  Mills,'  says  he,  '  has  taken  possession  of 
my  money  and  papers  except  six  bits.  I  told  her  what 
I'd  agreed  to  give  you;  but  she  says  it's  an  irreligious 
and  illegal  contract,  and  she  won't  pay  a  cent  of  it. 
But  I  ain't  going  to  see  you  treated  unfair,'  says  he. 
*  I've  got  eighty-seven  saddles  on  the  ranch  what  I've 
bought  on  this  trip ;  and  when  I  get  back  I'm  going  to 
pick  out  the  best  six  in  the  lot  and  send  'em  to  you.'  " 

"  And  did  he  ?  "  I  asked,  when  Lucullus  ceased  talk- 
ing. 

"  He  did.  And  they  are  fit  for  kings  to  ride  on. 
The  six  he  sent  me  must  have  cost  him  three  thousand 
dollars.  But  where  is  the  market  for  'em  ?  Who  would 
buy  one  except  one  of  these  rajahs  and  princes  of 


92  Heart  of  the  West 

Asia  and  Africa?  I've  got  'em  all  on  the  list.  I  know 
every  tan  royal  dub  and  smoked  princerino  from  Min- 
danao to  the  Caspian  Sea." 

"  It's  a  long  time  between  customers,"  I  ventured. 

"  They're  coming  faster,"  said  Polk.  "  Nowadays, 
when  one  of  the  murdering  mutts  gets  civilised  enough 
to  abolish  suttee  and  quit  using  his  whiskers  for  a  nap- 
kin, he  calls  himself  the  Roosevelt  of  the  East,  and 
comes  over  to  investigate  our  Chautauquas  and  cock- 
tails. I'll  place  'em  all  yet.  Now  look  here." 

From  an  inside  pocket  he  drew  a  tightly  folded  news- 
paper with  much-worn  edges,  and  indicated  a  paragraph. 

"  Read  that,"  said  the  saddler  to  royalty.  The 
paragraph  ran  thus : 

His  Highness  Seyyid  Feysal  bin  Turkee,  Imam  of  Muskat,  is 
One  of  the  most  progressive  and  enlightened  rulers  of  the  Old 
"World.  His  stables  contain  more  than  a  thousand  horses  of  the 
purest  Persian  breeds.  It  is  said  that  this  powerful  prince  con- 
templates a  yisit  to  the  United  States  at  an  early  date. 

"  There !  "  said  Mr.  Polk  triumphantly.  "  My  best 
saddle  is  as  good  as  sold  —  the  one  with  turquoises  set 
in  the  rim  of  the  cantle.  Have  you  three  dollars  that 
you  could  loan  me  for  a  short  time  ?  " 

It  happened  that  I  had ;  and  I  did. 

If  this  should  meet  the  eye  of  the  Imam  of  Muskat, 
may  it  quicken  his  whim  to  visit  the  land  of  the  free! 
Otherwise  I  fear  that  I  shall  be  longer  than  a  short 
time  separated  from  my  dollars  three. 


VII 
HYGEIA  AT  THE  SOLITO       i^- 

IF  you  are  knowing  in  the  chronicles  of  the  ring  you 
will  recall  to  mind  an  event  in  the  early  'nineties  when, 
for  a  minute  and  sundry  odd  seconds,  a  champion  and 
a  "  would-be  "  faced  each  other  on  the  alien  side  of  an 
international  river.  So  brief  a  conflict  had  rarely  im- 
posed upon  the  fair  promise  of  true  sport.  The  re- 
porters made  what  they  could  of  it,  but,  divested  of 
padding,  the  action  was  sadly  fugacious.  The  cham- 
pion merely  smote  his  victim,  turned  his  back  upon  him, 
remarking,  "  I  know  what  I  done  to  dat  stiff,"  and 
extended  an  arm  like  a  ship's  mast  for  his  glove  to  be 
removed. 

Which  accounts  for  a  trainload  of  extremely  dis- 
gusted gentlemen  in  an  uproar  of  fancy  vests  and  neck- 
wear being  spilled  from  their  Pullmans  in  San  Antonio 
in  the  early  morning  following  the  fight.  Which  also 
partly  accounts  for  the  unhappy  predicament  in  which 
"  Cricket "  McGuire  found  himself  as  he  tumbled  from 
his  car  and  sat  upon  the  depot  platform,  torn  by  a 
spasm  of  that  hollow,  racking  cough  so  familiar  to 
San  Antonian  ears.  At  that  time,  in  the  uncertain  light 
of  dawn,  that  way  passed  Curtis  Raidler,  the  Nueces 

93 


94  Heart  of  the  West 

County  cattleman  —  may  his  shadow  never  measure 
under  six  feet  two. 

The  cattleman,  out  this  early  to  catch  the  south- 
bound for  his  ranch  station,  stopped  at  the  side  of  the 
distressed  patron  of  sport,  and  spoke  in  the  kindly 
drawl  of  his  ilk  and  region,  "  Got  it  pretty  bad,  bud?  " 

"  Cricket "  McGuire,  ex-feather-weight  prizefighter, 
tout,  jockey,  follower  of  the  "ponies,"  all-round  sport, 
and  manipulator  of  the  gum  balls  and  walnut  shells, 
looked  up  pugnaciously  at  the  imputation  cast  by 
"bud." 

"  G'wan,"  he  rasped,  "  telegraph  pole.  I  didn't  ring 
for  yer." 

Another  paroxysm  wrung  him,  and  he  leaned  limply 
against  a  convenient  baggage  truck.  Raidler  waited 
patiently,  glancing  around  at  the  white  hats,  short 
overcoats,  and  big  cigars  thronging  the  platform. 
"  You're  from  the  No'th,  ain't  you,  bud  ?  "  he  asked 
when  the  other  was  partially  recovered.  "  Come  down 
to  see  the  fight?" 

"  Fight !  "  snapped  McGuire.  "  Puss-in-the-corner ! 
'Twas  a  hypodermic  injection.  Handed  him  just  one 
like  a  squirt  of  dope,  and  he's  asleep,  and  no  tanbark 
needed  in  front  of  his  residence.  Fight !  "  He  rattled 
a  bit,  coughed,  and  went  on,  hardly  addressing  the 
cattleman,  but  rather  for  the  relief  of  voicing  his 
troubles.  "  No  more  dead  sure  t'ings  for  me.  But  Rus 
Sage  himself  would  have  snatched  at  it.  Five  to  one 
dat  de  boy  from  Cork  wouldn't  stay  free  rounds  is 
what  I  invested  in.  Put  my  last  cent  on,  and  could 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  95 

already  smell  the  sawdust  in  dat  all-night  joint  of 
Jimmy  Delaney's  on  T'irty-seventh  Street  I  was  goin' 
to  buy.  And  den  —  say,  telegraph  pole,  what  a  gaza- 
boo  a  guy  is  to  put  his  whole  roll  on  one  turn  of  the 
gaboozlum !  " 

"  You're  plenty  right,"  said  the  big  cattleman ; 
"  more  'specially  when  you  lose.  Son,  you  get  up  and 
light  out  for  a  hotel.  You  got  a  mighty  bad  cough. 
Had  it  long?  " 

"  Lungs,"  said  McGuire  comprehensively.  "  I  got 
it.  The  croaker  says  I'll  come  to  time  for  six  months 
longer  —  maybe  a  year  if  I  hold  my  gait.  I  wanted  to 
settle  down  and  take  care  of  myself.  Dat's  why  I 
speculated  on  dat  five  to  one  perhaps.  I  had  a  t'ousand 
iron  dollars  saved  up.  If  I  winned  I  was  goin'  to  buy 
Delaney's  cafe.  Who'd  a  fought  dat  stiff  would  take 
a  nap  in  de  foist  round  —  say  ?  " 

*  It's  a  hard  deal,"  commented  Raidler,  looking  down 
at  tho  diminutive  form  of  McGuire  crumpled  against 
the  truck.  "  But  you  go  to  a  hotel  and  rest.  There's 
the  Menger  and  the  Maverick,  and — " 

"  And  the  Fi'th  Av'noo,  and  the  Waldorf-Astoria," 
mimicked  McGuire.  "  Told  you  I  went  broke.  I'm 
on  de  bum  proper.  I've  got  one  dime  left.  Maybe  a 
trip  to  Europe  or  a  sail  in  me  private  yacht  would  fix 
me  up  —  pa-per !  " 

He  flung  his  dime  at  a  newsboy,  got  his  Express, 
propped  his  back  against  the  truck,  and  was  at  once 
rapt  in  the  account  of  his  Waterloo,  as  expanded  by 
the  ingenious  press. 


96  Heart  of  the  West 

Curtis  Raidler  interrogated  an  enormous  gold  watch, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  McGuire's  shoulder. 

"  Come  on,  bud,"  he  said.  "  We  got  three  minutes 
to  catch  the  train." 

Sarcasm  seemed  to  be  McGuire's  vein. 

"  You  ain't  seen  me  cash  in  any  chips  or  call  a  turn 
since  I  told  you  I  was  broke,  a  minute  ago,  have  you? 
Friend,  chase  yourself  away." 

"  You're  going  down  to  my  ranch,"  said  the  cattle- 
man, "  and  stay  till  you  get  well.  Six  months  '11  fix 
you  good  as  new."  He  lifted  McGuire  with  one  hand, 
and  half -dragged  him  in  the  direction  of  the  train. 

"What  about  the  money?"  said  McGuire,  strug- 
gling weakly  to  escape. 

"Money  for  what?"  asked  Raidler,  puzzled.  They 
eyed  each  other,  not  understanding,  for  they  touched 
only  as  at  the  gear  of  bevelled  cog-wheels  —  at  right 
angles,  and  moving  upon  different  axes. 

Passengers  on  the  south-bound  saw  them  seated  to- 
gether, and  wondered  at  the  conflux  of  two  such  antip- 
odes. McGuire  was  five  feet  one,  with  a  countenance 
belonging  to  either  Yokohama  or  Dublin.  Bright- 
beady  of  eye,  bony  of  cheek  and  jaw,  scarred,  toughened, 
broken  and  reknit,  indestructible,  grisly,  gladiatorial  as 
a  hornet,  he  was  a  type  neither  new  nor  unfamiliar. 
Raidler  was  the  product  of  a  different  soil.  Six  feet 
two  in  height,  miles  broad,  and  no  deeper  than  a  crystal 
brook,  he  represented  the  union  of  the  West  and  South. 
Few  accurate  pictures  of  his  kind  have  been  made,  for 
art  galleries  are  so  small  and  the  mutoscope  is  as  yet 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  97 

unknown  in  Texas.  After  all,  the  only  possible  medium 
of  portrayal  of  Raidler's  kind  would  be  the  fresco  — 
something  high  and  simple  and  cool  and  unframed. 

They  were  rolling  southward  on  the  International. 
The  timber  was  huddling  into  little,  dense  green  motts 
at  rare  distances  before  the  inundation  of  the  downright, 
vert  prairies.  This  was  the  land  of  the  ranches ;  the 
domain  of  the  kings  of  the  kine. 

McGuire  sat,  collapsed  into  his  corner  of  the  seat, 
receiving  with  acid  suspicion  the  conversation  of  the 
cattleman.  What  was  the  "  game  "  of  this  big  "  gee- 
zer "  who  was  carrying  him  off?  Altruism  would  have 
been  McGuire's  last  guess.  "  He  ain't  no  farmer," 
thought  the  captive,  "  and  he  ain't  no  con  man,  for  sure. 
Wat's  his  lay?  You  trail  in,  Cricket,  and  see  how 
many  cards  he  draws.  You're  up  against  it,  anyhow. 
You  got  a  nickel  and  gallopin'  consumption,  and  you 
better  lay  low.  Lay  low  and  see  w'at's  his  game." 

At  Rincon,  a  hundred  miles  from  San  Antonio,  they 
left  the  train  for  a  buckboard  which  was  waiting  there 
for  Raidler.  In  this  they  travelled  the  thirty  miles 
between  the  station  and  their  destination.  If  anything 
could,  this  drive  should  have  stirred  the  acrimonious 
McGuire  to  a  sense  of  his  ransom.  They  sped  upon 
velvety  wheels  across  an  exhilarant  savanna.  The  pair 
of  Spanish  ponies  struck  a  nimble,  tireless  trot,  which 
gait  they  occasionally  relieved  by  a  wild,  untrammelled 
gallop.  The  air  was  wine  and  seltzer,  perfumed,  as 
they  absorbed  it,  with  the  delicate  redolence  of  prairie 
flowers.  The  road  perished,  and  the  buckboard  swam 


98  Heart  of  the  West 

the  uncharted  billows  of  the  grass  itself,  steered  by  the 
practised  hand  of  Raidler,  to  whom  each  tiny  distant 
mott  of  trees  was  a  signboard,  each  convolution  of  the 
low  hills  a  voucher  of  course  and  distance.  But  Mc- 
Guire  reclined  upon  his  spine,  seeing  nothing  but  a 
desert,  and  receiving  the  cattleman's  advances  with 
sullen  distrust.  "  Wat's  he  up  to  ?  "  was  the  burden 
of  his  thoughts ;  "  w'at  kind  of  a  gold  brick  has  the  big 
guy  got  to  sell? "  McGuire  was  only  applying  the 
measure  of  the  streets  he  had  walked  to  a  range  bounded 
by  the  horizon  and  the  fourth  dimension. 

A  week  before,  while  riding  the  prairies,  Raidler  had 
come  upon  a  sick  and  weakling  calf  deserted  and  bawl- 
ing. Without  dismounting  he  had  reached  and  slung 
the  distressed  bossy  across  his  saddle,  and  dropped  it 
at  the  ranch  for  the  boys  to  attend  to.  It  was  im- 
possible for  McGuire  to  know  or  comprehend  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  cattleman,  his  case  and  that  of  the  calf 
were  identical  in  interest  and  demand  upon  his  assistance. 
A  creature  was  ill  and  helpless;  he  had  the  power  to 
render  aid  —  these  were  the  only  postulates  required 
for  the  cattleman  to  act.  They  formed  his  system  of 
logic  and  the  most  of  his  creed.  McGuire  was  the 
seventh  invalid  whom  Raidler  had  picked  up  thus  cas- 
ually in  San  Antonio,  where  so  many  thousand  go  for 
the  ozone  that  is  said  to  linger  about  its  contracted 
streets.  Five  of  them  had  been  guests  of  Solito  Ranch 
until  they  had  been  able  to  leave,  cured  or  better,  and 
exhausting  the  vocabulary  of  tearful  gratitude.  One 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  99 

came  too  late,  but  rested  very  comfortably,  at  last, 
under  a  ratama  tree  in  the  garden. 

So,  then,  it  was  no  surprise  to  the  ranchhold  when 
the  buckboard  spun  to  the  door,  and  Raidler  took  up 
his  debile  protege  like  a  handful  of  rags  and  set  him 
down  upon  the  gallery. 

McGuire  looked  upon  things  strange  to  him.  The 
ranch-house  was  the  best  in  the  country.  It  was  built 
of  brick  hauled  one  hundred  miles  by  wagon,  but  it 
was  of  but  one  story,  and  its  four  rooms  were  com- 
pletely encircled  by  a  mud  floor  "  gallery."  The  mis- 
cellaneous setting  of  horses,  dogs,  saddles,  wagons,  guns, 
and  cow-punchers'  paraphernalia  oppressed  the  metro- 
politan eye  of  the  wrecked  sportsman. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  home,"  said  Raidler,  cheer- 
ingly. 

"  It's  a  h — 1  of  a  looking  place,"  said  McGuire 
promptly,  as  he  rolled  upon  the  gallery  floor  in  a  fit 
of  coughing. 

"  We'll  try  to  make  it  comfortable  for  you,  buddy," 
said  the  cattleman  gently.  "  It  ain't  fine  inside ;  but 
it's  the  outdoors,  anyway,  that'll  do  you  the  most  good. 
This'll  be  your  room,  in  here.  Anything  we  got,  you 
ask  for  it." 

He  led  McGuire  into  the  east  room.  The  floor  was 
bare  and  clean.  White  curtains  waved  In  the  gulf 
breeze  through  the  open  windows.  A  big  willow  rocker, 
two  straight  chairs,  a  long  table  covered  with  news- 
papers, pipes,  tobacco,  spurs,  and  cartridges  stood  in 


100  Heart  of  the  West 

the  centre.  Some  well-mounted  heads  of  deer  and  one 
of  an  enormous  black  javeli  projected  from  the  walls. 
A  wide,  cool  cot-bed  stood  in  a  corner.  Nueces  County 
people  regarded  this  guest  chamber  as  fit  for  a  prince. 
McGuire  showed  his  eyeteeth  at  it.  He  took  out  his 
nickel  and  spun  it  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"  T'ought  I  was  lyin'  about  the  money,  did  ye  ?  Well, 
you  can  frisk  me  if  you  wanter.  Dat's  the  last  sim- 
oleon  in  the  treasury.  Who's  goin'  to  pay?  " 

The  cattleman's  clear  grey  eyes  looked  steadily  from 
under  his  grizzly  brows  into  the  huckleberry  optics  of 
his  guest.  After  a  little  he  said  simply,  and  not  un- 
graciously, "  I'll  be  much  obliged  to  you,  son,  if  you 
won't  mention  money  any  more.  Once  was  quite  a 
plenty.  Folks  I  ask  to  my  ranch  don't  have  to  pay 
anything,  and  they  very  scarcely  ever  offers  it.  Sup- 
per'll  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  There's  water  in  the 
pitcher,  and  some,  cooler,  to  drink,  in  that  red  jar 
hanging  on  the  gallery. 

"Where's  the  bell?"  asked  McGuire,  looking  about. 

"Bell  for  what?" 

"  Bell  to  ring  for  things.  I  can't  —  see  here,"  he 
exploded  in  a  sudden,  weak  fury,  "  I  never  asked  you 
to  bring  me  here.  I  never  held  you  up  for  a  cent.  I 
never  gave  you  a  hard-luck  story  till  you  asked  me.  Here 
I  am  fifty  miles  from  a  bellboy  or  a  cocktail.  I'm  sick. 
I  can't  hustle.  Gee !  but  I'm  up  against  it !  "  Mc- 
Guire fell  upon  the  cot  and  sobbed  shiveringly. 

Raidler  went   to  the   door   and   called.     A   slender, 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  101 

bright-complexioned  Mexican  youth  about  twenty  came 
quickly.  Raidler  spoke  to  him  in  Spanish. 

"  Ylario,  it  is  in  my  mind  that  I  promised  you  the 
position  of  vaquero  on  the  San  Carlos  range  at  the  fall 
rodea." 

"  Si,  senor,  such  was  your  goodness." 

"  Listen.  This  senorito  is  my  friend.  He  is  very 
sick.  Place  yourself  at  his  side.  Attend  to  his  wants 
at  all  times.  Have  much  patience  and  care  with  him. 
And  when  he  is  well,  or  —  and  when  he  is  well,  instead 
of  vaquero  I  will  make  you  mayordomo  of  the  Rancho 
de  las  Piedras.  Esta  buenof  " 

"  Si,  si  —  mil  graclas,  senor."  Ylario  tried  to  kneel 
upon  the  floor  in  his  gratitude,  but  the  cattleman  kicked 
at  him  benevolently,  growling,  "  None  of  your  opery- 
house  antics,  now." 

Ten  minutes  later  Ylario  came  from  McGuire's  room 
and  stood  before  Raidler. 

"  The  little  senor,"  he  announced,  "  presents  his 
compliments  "  (Raidler  credited  Ylario  with  the  pre- 
liminary) "  and  desires  some  pounded  ice,  one  hot  bath, 
one  gin  feez-z,  that  the  windows  be  all  closed,  toast,  one 
shave,  one  Newyorkheral',  cigarettes,  and  to  send  one 
telegram." 

Raidler  took  a  quart  bottle  of  whisky  from  his  medi- 
cine cabinet.  "  Here,  take  him  this,"  he  said. 

Thus  was  instituted  the  reign  of  terror  at  the  Solito 
Ranch.  For  a  few  weeks  McGuire  blustered  and 
boasted  and  swaggered  before  the  cow-punchers  who 


102  Heart  of  the  West 

rode  in  for  miles  around  to  see  this  latest  importation 
of  Raidler's.  He  was  an  absolutely  new  experience  to 
them.  He  explained  to  them  all  the  intricate  points 
of  sparring  and  the  tricks  of  training  and  defence. 
He  opened  to  their  minds'  view  all  the  indecorous  life 
of  a  tagger  after  professional  sports.  His  jargon  of 
slang  was  a  continuous  joy  and  surprise  to  them.  His 
gestures,  his  strange  poses,  his  frank  ribaldry  of  tongue 
and  principle  fascinated  them.  He  was  like  a  being 
from  a  new  world. 

Strange  to  say,  this  new  world  he  had  entered  did 
not  exist  to  him.  He  was  an  utter  egoist  of  bricks  and 
mortar.  He  had  dropped  out,  he  felt,  into  open  space 
for  a  time,  and  all  it  contained  was  an  audience  for  his 
reminiscences.  Neither  the  limitless  freedom  of  the 
prairie  days  nor  the  grand  hush  of  the  close-drawn, 
spangled  nights  touched  him.  All  the  hues  of  Aurora 
could  not  win  him  from  the  pink  pages  of  a  sporting 
journal.  "  Get  something  for  nothing,"  was  his  mis- 
sion in  life ;  "  T'irty-seventh  "  Street  was  his  goal. 

Nearly  two  months  after  his  arrival  he  began  to 
complain  that  he  felt  worse.  It  was  then  that  he  be- 
came the  ranch's  incubus,  its  harpy,  its  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea.  He  shut  himself  in  his  room  like  some  venomous 
kobold  or  flibbertigibbet,  whining,  complaining,  cursing, 
accusing.  The  keynote  of  his  plaint  was  that  he  had 
been  inveigled  into  a  gehenna  against  his  will;  that  he 
was  dying  of  neglect  and  lack  of  comforts.  With  all 
his  dire  protestations  of  increasing  illness,  to  the  eye 
of  others  he  remained  unchanged.  His  currant-like 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  103 

eyes  were  as  bright  and  diabolic  as  ever ;  his  voice  was 
as  rasping;  his  callous  face,  with  the  skin  drawn  tense 
as  a  drum-head,  had  no  flesh  to  lose.  A  flush  on  his 
prominent  cheek  bones  each  afternoon  hinted  that  a 
clinical  thermometer  might  have  revealed  a  symptom, 
and  percussion  might  have  established  the  fact  that  Mc- 
Guire  was  breathing  with  only  one  lung,  but  his  ap- 
pearance remained  the  same. 

In  constant  attendance  upon  him  was  Ylario,  whom 
the  coming  reward  of  the  mayordomoship  must  have 
greatly  stimulated,  for  McGuire  chained  him  to  a  bitter 
existence.  The  air  —  the  man's  only  chance  for  life 
—  he  commanded  to  be  kept  out  by  closed  windows  and 
drawn  curtains.  The  room  was  always  blue  and  foul 
with  cigarette  smoke;  whosoever  entered  it  must  sit, 
suffocating,  and  listen  to  the  imp's  interminable  gas- 
conade concerning  his  scandalous  career. 

The  oddest  thing  of  all  was  the  relation  existing  be- 
tween McGuire  and  his  benefactor.  The  attitude  of 
the  invalid  toward  the  cattleman  was  something  like 
that  of  a  peevish,  perverse  child  toward  an  indulgent 
parent.  When  Raidler  would  leave  the  ranch  McGuire 
would  fall  into  a  fit  of  malevolent,  silent  sullenness. 
When  he  returned,  he  would  be  met  by  a  string  of 
violent  and  stinging  reproaches.  Raidler's  attitude  to- 
ward his  charge  was  quite  inexplicable  in  its  way.  The 
cattleman  seemed  actually  to  assume  and  feel  the  char- 
acter assigned  him  by  McGuire's  intemperate  accu- 
sations —  the  character  of  tyrant  and  guilty  oppressor. 
He  seemed  to  have  adopted  the  responsibility  of  the 


104  Heart  of  the  West 

fellow's  condition,  and  he  always  met  his  tirades  witK 
a  pacific,  patient,  and  even  remorseful  kindness  that 
never  altered. 

One  day  Raidler  said  to  him,  "  Try  more  air,  son. 
You  can  have  the  buckboard  and  a  driver  every  day 
if  you'll  go.  Try  a  week  or  two  in  one  of  the  cow 
camps.  I'll  fix  you  up  plum  comfortable.  The 
ground,  and  the  air  next  to  it  —  them's  the  things  to 
cure  you.  I  knowed  a  man  from  Philadelphy,  sicker 
than  you  are,  got  lost  on  the  Guadalupe,  and  slept  on 
the  bare  grass  in  sheep  camps  for  two  weeks.  Well, 
sir,  it  started  him  getting  well,  which  he  done.  Close 
to  the  ground  —  that's  where  the  medicine  in  the  air 
stays.  Try  a  little  hossback  riding  now.  There's  a 
gentle  pony  — " 

"  What've  I  done  to  yer  ? "  screamed  McGuire. 
"  Did  I  ever  doublecross  yer?  Did  I  ask  you  to  bring 
me  here?  Drive  me  out  to  your  camps  if  you  wanter; 
or  stick  a  knife  in  me  and  save  trouble.  Ride !  I  can't 
lift  my  feet.  I  couldn't  sidestep  a  jab  from  a  five- 
year-old  kid.  That's  what  your  d — d  ranch  has  done 
for  me.  There's  nothing  to  eat,  nothing  to  see,  and 
nobody  to  talk  to  but  a  lot  of  Reubens  who  don't  know 
a  punching  bag  from  a  lobster  salad." 

"  It's  a  lonesome  place,  for  certain,"  apologised 
Raidler  abashedly.  "  We  got  plenty,  but  it's  rough 
enough.  Anything  you  think  of  you  want,  the  boys'U 
ride  up  and  fetch  it  down  for  you." 

It  was  Chad  Murchison,  a  cow-puncher  from  the 
Circle  Bar  outfit,  who  first  suggested  that  McGuire's 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  105 

illness  was  fraudulent.  Chad  had  brought  a  basket  of 
grapes  for  him  thirty  miles,  and  four  out  of  his  way, 
tied  to  his  saddle-horn.  After  remaining  in  the  smoke- 
tainted  room  for  a  while,  he  emerged  and  bluntly  con- 
fided his  suspicions  to  Raidler. 

"  His  arm,"  said  Chad,  "  is  harder'n  a  diamond.  He 
interduced  me  to  what  he  called  a  shore-perplexus 
punch,  and  'twas  like  being  kicked  twice  by  a  mustang. 
He's  playin'  it  low  down  on  you,  Curt.  He  ain't  no 
sicker'n  I  am.  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  the  runt's  workin' 
you  for  range  and  shelter." 

The  cattleman's  ingenuous  mind  refused  to  entertain 
Chad's  view  of  the  case,  and  when,  later,  he  came  to 
apply  the  test,  doubt  entered  not  into  his  motives. 

One  day,  about  noon,  two  men  drove  up  to  the  ranch, 
alighted,  hitched,  and  came  in  to  dinner;  standing  and 
general  invitations  being  the  custom  of  the  country. 
One  of  them  was  a  great  San  Antonio  doctor,  whose 
costly  services  had  been  engaged  by  a  wealthy  cowman 
who  had  been  laid  low  by  an  accidental  bullet.  He  was 
now  being  driven  to  the  station  to  take  the  train  back 
to  town.  After  dinner  Raidler  took  him  aside,  pushed 
a  twenty-dollar  bill  against  his  hand,  and  said: 

"  Doc,  there's  a  young  chap  in  that  room  I  guess  has 
got  a  bad  case  of  consumption.  I'd  like  for  you  to 
look  him  over  and  see  just  how  bad  he  is,  and  if  we  can 
do  anything  for  him." 

"  How  much  was  that  dinner  I  just  ate,  Mr.  Raid- 
ler? "  said  the  doctor  bluffly,  looking  over  his  spectacles. 
Raidler  returned  the  money  to  his  pocket.  The  doctor 


106  Heart  of  the  West 

immediately  entered  McGuire's  room,  and  the  cattleman 
seated  himself  upon  a  heap  of  saddles  on  the  gallery, 
ready  to  reproach  himself  in  the  event  the  verdict  should 
be  unfavourable. 

In  ten  minutes  the  doctor  came  briskly  out.  "  Your 
man,"  he  said  promptly,  "  is  as  sound  as  a  new  dollar. 
His  lungs  are  better  than  mine.  Respiration,  temper- 
ature, and  pulse  normal.  Chest  expansion  four  inches. 
Not  a  sign  of  weakness  anywhere.  Of  course  I  didn't 
examine  for  the  bacillus,  but  it  isn't  there.  You  can 
put  my  name  to  the  diagnosis.  Even  cigarettes  and  a 
vilely  close  room  haven't  hurt  him.  Coughs,  does  he? 
Well,  you  tell  him  it  isn't  necessary.  You  asked  if  there 
is  anything  we  could  do  for  him.  Well,  I  advise  you 
to  set  him  digging  post-holes  or  breaking  mustangs. 
There's  our  team  ready.  Good-day,  sir."  And  like  a 
puff  of  wholesome,  blustery  wind  the  doctor  was 
off. 

Raidler  reached  out  and  plucked  a  leaf  from  a 
mesquite  bush  by  the  railing,  and  began  chewing  it 
thoughtfully. 

The  branding  season  was  at  hand,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing Ross  Hargis,  foreman  of  the  outfit,  was  mustering 
his  force  of  some  twenty-five  men  at  the  ranch,  ready 
to  start  for  the  San  Carlos  range,  where  the  work  was 
to  begin.  By  six  o'clock  the  horses  were  all  saddled, 
the  grub  wagon  ready,  and  the  cow-punchers  were  swing- 
ing themselves  upon  their  mounts,  when  Raidler  bade 
them  wait.  A  boy  was  bringing  up  an  extra  pony, 
bridled  and  saddled,  to  the  gate.  Raidler  walked  to 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  107 

McGuire's  room  and  threw  open  the  door.  McGuire 
was  lying  on  his  cot,  not  yet  dressed,  smoking. 

"  Get  up,"  said  the  cattleman,  and  his  voice  was  clear 
and  brassy,  like  a  bugle. 

"How's  that?"  asked  McGuire,  a  little  startled. 

"  Get  up  and  dress.  I  can  stand  a  rattlesnake,  but 
I  hate  a  liar.  Do  I  have  to  tell  you  again?  "  He 
caught  McGuire  by  the  neck  and  stood  him  on  the  floor. 

"  Say,  friend,"  cried  McGuire  wildly,  "  are  you  bug- 
house ?  I'm  sick  —  see  ?  I'll  croak  if  I  got  to  hustle* 
What've  I  done  to  yer  ?  " —  he  began  his  chronic  whine 
— "  I  never  asked  yer  to  — " 

"  Put  on  your  clothes,"  called  Raidler  in  a  rising 
tone. 

Swearing,  stumbling,  shivering,  keeping  his  amazed,, 
shiny  eyes  upon  the  now  menacing  form  of  the  aroused 
cattleman,  McGuire  managed  to  tumble  into  his  clothes. 
Then  Raidler  took  him  by  the  collar  and  shoved  him 
out  and  across  the  yard  to  the  extra  pony  hitched  at 
the  gate.  The  cow-punchers  lolled  in  their  saddles,, 
open-mouthed. 

"  Take  this  man,"  said  Raidler  to  Ross  Hargis,  "  and 
put  him  to  work.  Make  him  work  hard,  sleep  hard, 
and  eat  hard.  You  boys  know  I  done  what  I  could  for 
him,  and  he  was  welcome.  Yesterday  the  best  doctor 
in  San  Antone  examined  him,  and  says  he's  got  the 
lungs  of  a  burro  and  the  constitution  of  a  steer.  You 
know  what  to  do  with  him,  Ross." 

Ross  Hargis  only  smiled  grimly. 

"  Aw,"   said  McGuire,  looking  intently  at  Raidler,, 


108  Heart  of  the  West 

with  a  peculiar  expression  upon  his  face,  "  the  croaket 
said  I  was  all  right,  did  he?  Said  I  was  fakin',  did  he? 
You  put  him  onto  me.  You  fought  I  wasn't  sick. 
You  said  I  was  a  liar.  Say,  friend,  I  talked  rough,  I 
know,  but  I  didn't  mean  most  of  it.  If  you  felt  like  I 
did  —  aw !  I  forgot  —  I  ain't  sick,  the  croaker  says. 
Well,  friend,  now  I'll  go  work  for  yer.  Here's  where 
you  play  even." 

He  sprang  into  the  saddle  easily  as  a  bird,  got  the 
quirt  from  the  horn,  and  gave  his  pony  a  slash  with  it. 
"  Cricket,"  who  once  brought  in  Good  Boy  by  a  neck 
at  Hawthorne  —  and  a  10  to  1  shot  —  had  his  foot  in 
the  stirrups  again. 

McGuire  led  the  cavalcade  as  they  dashed  away  for 
San  Carlos,  and  the  cow-punchers  gave  a  yell  of  ap- 
plause as  they  closed  in  behind  his  dust. 

But  in  less  than  a  mile  he  had  lagged  to  the  rear, 
and  was  last  man  when  they  struck  the  patch  of  high 
chaparral  below  the  horse  pens.  Behind  a  clump  of 
this  he  drew  rein,  and  held  a  handkerchief  to  his  mouth. 
He  took  it  away  drenched  with  bright,  arterial  blood, 
and  threw  it  carefully  into  a  clump  of  prickly  pear. 
Then  he  slashed  with  his  quirt  again,  gasped  "  G'wan  " 
to  his  astonished  pony,  and  galloped  after  the  gang. 

That  night  Raidler  received  a  message  from  his  old 
home  in  Alabama.  There  had  been  a  death  in  the 
family;  an  estate  was  to  divide,  and  they  called  for 
him  to  come.  Daylight  found  him  in  the  buckboard, 
skimming  the  prairies  for  the  station.  It  was  two 
months  before  he  returned  When  he  arrived  at  the 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  109 

ranch  house  he  found  it  well-nigh  deserted  save  for 
Ylario,  who  acted  as  a  kind  of  steward  during  his  ab- 
sence. Little  by  little  the  youth  made  him  acquainted 
with  the  work  done  while  he  was  away.  The  branding 
camp,  he  was  informed,  was  still  doing  business.  On 
account  of  many  severe  storms  the  cattle  had  been 
badly  scattered,  and  the  branding  had  been  accom- 
plished but  slowly.  The  camp  was  now  in  the  valley 
of  the  Guadalupe,  twenty  miles  away. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Raidler,  suddenly  remembering, 
"  that  fellow  I  sent  along  with  them  —  McGuire  —  is 
he  working  yet  ?  " 

**  I  do  not  know,"  said  Ylario.  "  Mans  from  the 
camp  come  verree  few  times  to  the  ranch.  So  plentee 
work  with  the  leetle  calves.  They  no  say.  Oh,  I  think 
that  fellow  McGuire  he  dead  much  time  ago." 

"Dead!"  said  Raidler.  "What  you  talking 
about?" 

"  Verree  sick  fellow,  McGuire,"  replied  Ylario,  with 
a  shrug  of  his  shoulder.  "  I  theenk  he  no  live  one,  two 
month  when  he  go  away." 

"  Shucks !  "  said  Raidler.  "  He  humbugged  you, 
•too,  did  he?  The  doctor  examined  him  and  said  he 
was  sound  as  a  mesquite  knot." 

"  That  doctor,"  said  Ylario,  smiling,  "  he  tell  you  so? 
That  doctor  no  see  McGuire." 

"  Talk  up,"  ordered  Raidler.  "  What  the  devil  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  McGuire,"  continued  the  boy  tranquilly,  "  he  get- 
ting drink  water  outside  when  that  doctor  come  in 


110  Heart  of  the  West 

room.  That  doctor  take  me  and  pound  me  all  over 
here  with  his  fingers  " —  putting  his  hand  to  his  chest 
— "  I  not  know  for  what.  He  put  his  ear  here  and 
here  and  here,  and  listen  —  I  not  know  for  what.  He 
put  little  glass  stick  in  my  mouth.  He  feel  my  arm 
here.  He  make  me  count  like  whisper  —  so  —  twenty, 
treinta,  cuarenta.  Who  knows,"  concluded  Ylario, 
with  a  deprecating  spread  of  his  hands,  "  for  what  that 
doctor  do  those  verree  droll  and  such-like  things  ?  " 

"What  horses  are  up?"  asked  Raidler  shortly. 

"  Paisano  is  grazing  but  behind  the  little  corral, 
senor." 

"  Saddle  him  for  me  at  once." 

Within  a  very  few  minutes  the  cattleman  was  mounted 
and  away.  Paisano,  well  named  after  that  ungainly 
but  swift-running  bird,  struck  into  his  long  lope  that 
ate  up  the  road  like  a  strip  of  macaroni.  In  two  hours 
and  a  quarter  Raidler,  from  a  gentle  swell,  saw  the 
branding  camp  by  a  water  hole  in  the  Guadalupe.  Sick 
with  expectancy  of  the  news  he  feared,  he  rode  up,  dis- 
mounted, and  dropped  Paisano's  reins.  So  gentle  was 
his  heart  that  at  that  moment  he  would  have  pleaded 
guilty  to  the  murder  of  McGuire. 

The  only  being  in  the  camp  was  the  cook,  who  was 
just  arranging  the  hunks  of  barbecued  beef,  and  dis- 
tributing the  tin  coffee  cups  for  supper.  Raidler 
evaded  a  direct  question  concerning  the  one  subject  in 
his  mind. 

"Everything  all  right  in  camp,  Pete?"  he  managed 
to  inquire. 


Hygeia  at  the  SoUto  111 

"  So,  so,"  said  Pete  conservatively.  "  Grub  give  out 
twice.  Wind  scattered  the  cattle,  and  we've  had  to 
rake  the  brush  for  forty  mile.  I  need  a  new  coffee-pot. 
And  the  mosquitos  is  some  more  hellish  than  common." 

"The  boys  — all  well?" 

Pete  was  no  optimist.  Besides,  inquiries  concerning 
the  health  of  cow-punchers  were  not  only  superfluous, 
but  bordered  on  flaccidity.  It  was  not  like  the  boss  to 
make  them. 

"  What's  left  of  'em  don't  miss  no  calls  to  grub," 
the  cook  conceded. 

"  What's  left  of  'em?  "  repeated  Raidler  in  a  husky 
voice.  Mechanically  he  began  to  look  around  for  Mc- 
Guire's  grave.  He  had  in  his  mind  a  white  slab  such 
as  he  had  seen  in  the  Alabama  church-yard.  But  im- 
mediately he  knew  that  was  foolish. 

"  Sure,"  said  Pete ;  "  what's  left.  Cow  camps  change 
in  two  months.  Some's  gone." 

Raidler  nerved  himself. 

"  That  —  chap  —  I  sent  along  —  McGuire  —  did  — 
he—" 

"  Say,"  interrupted  Pete,  rising  with  a  chunk  of 
corn  bread  in  each  hand,  "  that  was  a  dirty  shame, 
sending  that  poor,  sick  kid  to  a  cow  camp.  A  doctor 
that  couldn't  tell  he  was  graveyard  meat  ought  to  be 
skinned  with  a  cinch  buckle.  Game  as  he  was,  too  — 
it's  a  scandal  among  snakes  —  lemme  tell  you  what  he 
done.  First  night  in  camp  the  boys  started  to  initiate 
him  in  the  leather  breeches  degree.  Ross  Hargis  busted 
him  one  swipe  with  his  chaparreras,  and  what  do  you 


112  Heart  of  the  West 

reckon  the  poor  child  did?  Got  up,  the  little  skeeter, 
and  licked  Ross.  Licked  Ross  Hargis.  Licked  him 
good.  Hit  him  plenty  and  everywhere  and  hard. 
Ross'd  just  get  up  and  pick  out  a  fresh  place  to  lay 
down  on  agin. 

"  Then  that  McGuire  goes  off  there  and  lays  down 
with  his  head  in  the  grass  and  bleeds.  A  hem'ridge 
they  calls  it.  He  lays  there  eighteen  hours  by  the 
watch,  and  they  can't  budge  him.  Then  Ross  Hargis, 
who  loves  any  man  who  can  lick  him,  goes  to  work  and 
damns  the  doctors  from  Greenland  to  Poland  Chiny; 
and  him  and  Green  Branch  Johnson  they  gets  McGuire 
in  a  tent,  and  spells  each  other  feedin'  him  chopped 
raw  meat  and  whisky. 

"  But  it  looks  like  the  kid  ain't  got  no  appetite  to 
git  well,  for  they  misses  him  from  the  tent  in  the  night 
and  finds  him  rootin'  in  the  grass,  and  likewise  a  drizzle 
fallin'.  '  Gwan,'  he  says,  '  lemme  go  and  die  like  I 
wanter.  He  said  I  was  a  liar  and  a  fake  and  I  was 
playin'  sick.  Lemme  alone.' 

"  Two  weeks,"  went  on  the  cook,  "  he  laid  around, 
not  noticin'  nobody,  and  then — " 

A  sudden  thunder  filled  the  air,  and  a  score  of  gal- 
loping centaurs  crashed  through  the  brush  into  camp. 

"  Illustrious  rattlesnakes !  "  exclaimed  Pete,  spring- 
ing all  ways  at  once ;  "  here's  the  boys  come,  and  I'm 
an  assassinated  man  if  supper  ain't  ready  in  three 
minutes." 

But  Raidler  saw  only  one  thing.  A  little,  brown- 
faced,  grinning  chap,  springing  from  his  saddle  in  the 


Hygeia  at  the  Solito  113 

full  light  of  the  fire.     McGuire  was  not  like  that,  and 

yet  — 

In  another  instant  the  cattleman  was  holding  him  by 
the  hand  and  shoulder. 

"  Son,  son,  how  goes  it?"  was  all  he  found  to  say. 

"  Close  to  the  ground,  says  you,"  shouted  McGuire, 
crunching  Raidler's  fingers  in  a  grip  of  steel ;  "  and 
dat's  where  I  found  it  —  healt'  and  strengt',  and 
tumbled  to  what  a  cheap  skate  I  been  actin'.  T'anks 
fer  kickin'  me  out,  old  man.  And  —  say!  de  joke's  on 
dat  croaker,  ain't  it?  I  looked  t'rough  the  window  and 
see  him  playin'  tag  on  dat  Dago  kid's  solar  plexus." 

"  You  son  of  a  tinker,"  growled  the  cattleman 
"  whyn't  you  talk  up  and  say  the  doctor  never  examined 
you?" 

"  Aw  —  g'wan !  "  said  McGuire,  with  a  flash  of  his 
old  asperity,  "  nobody  can't  bluff  me.  You  never  ast 
me.  You  made  your  spiel,  and  you  t'rowed  me  out, 
and  I  let  it  go  at  dat.  And,  say,  friend,  dis  chasin* 
cows  is  outer  sight.  Dis  is  de  whitest  bunch  of  sports 
I  ever  travelled  with.  You'll  let  me  stay,  won't  yer, 
old  man  ?  " 

Raidler  looked  wonderingly  toward  Ross  Hargis. 

"  That  cussed  little  runt,"  remarked  Ross  tenderly, 
"  is  the  Jo-dartin'est  hustler  —  and  the  hardest  hitter  in 
anybody's  cow  camp." 


vm 

AN  AFTERNOON  MIRACLE 


the  United  States  end  of  an  international  river 
bridge,  four  armed  rangers  sweltered  in  a  little  'dobe 
hut,  keeping  a  fairly  faithful  espionage  upon  the  lag- 
ging trail  of  passengers  from  the  Mexican  side. 

Bud  Dawson,  proprietor  of  the  Top  Notch  Saloon, 
had,  on  the  evening  previous,  violently  ejected  from  his 
premises  one  Leandro  Garcia,  for  alleged  violation  of 
the  Top  Notch  code  of  behaviour.  Garcia  had  men- 
tioned twenty-four  hours  as  a  limit,  by  which  time  he 
•would  call  and  collect  a  plentiful  indemnity  for  personal 
satisfaction. 

This  Mexican,  although  a  tremendous  braggart,  was 
thoroughly  courageous,  and  each  side  of  the  river  re~ 
spected  him  for  one  of  these  attributes.  He  and  a  fol- 
lowing of  similar  bravoes  were  addicted  to  the  pastime 
of  retrieving  towns  from  stagnation. 

The  day  designated  by  Garcia  for  retribution  was  to 
be  further  signalised  on  the  American  side  by  a  cattle- 
men's convention,  a  bull  fight,  and  an  old  settlers'  barbe- 
cue and  picnic.  Knowing  the  avenger  to  be  a  man  of 
his  word,  and  believing  it  prudent  to  court  peace  while 
three  such  gently  social  relaxations  were  in  progress, 

Captain   McNulty,   of  the   ranger   company   stationed 

114, 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  115 

there,  detailed  his  lieutenant  and  three  men  for  duty  at 
the  end  of  the  bridge.  Their  instructions  were  to  pre- 
vent the  invasion  of  Garcia,  either  alone  or  attended  by 
his  gang. 

Travel  was  slight  that  sultry  afternoon,  and  the 
rangers  swore  gently,  and  mopped  their  brows  in  their 
convenient  but  close  quarters.  For  an  hour  no  one  had 
crossed  save  an  old  woman  enveloped  in  a  brown  wrap- 
per and  a  black  mantilla,  driving  before  her  a  burro 
loaded  with  kindling  wood  tied  in  small  bundles  for  ped- 
dling. Then  three  shots  were  fired  down  the  street, 
the  sound  coming  clear  and  snappy  through  the  still 
air. 

The  four  rangers  quickened  from  sprawling,  sym- 
bolic figures  of  indolence  to  alert  life,  but  only  one  rose 
to  his  feet.  Three  turned  their  eyes  beseechingly  but 
hopelessly  upon  the  fourth,  who  had  gotten  nimbly  up 
and  was  buckling  his  cartridge-belt  around  him.  The 
three  knew  that  Lieutenant  Bob  Buckley,  in  command, 
would  allow  no  man  of  them  the  privilege  of  investi- 
gating a  row  when  he  himself  might  go. 

The  agile,  broad-chested  lieutenant,  without  a  change 
of  expression  in  his  smooth,  yellow-brown,  melancholy 
face,  shot  the  belt '  strap  through  the  guard  of  the 
buckle,  hefted  his  sixes  in  their  holsters  as  a  belle  gives 
the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilette,  caught  up  his  Win- 
chester, and  dived  for  the  door.  There  he  paused  long 
enough  to  caution  his  comrades  to  maintain  their  watch 
upon  the  bridge,  and  then  plunged  into  the  broiling 
highway. 


116  Heart  of  'the  West 

The  three  relapsed  into  resigned  inertia  and  plaintive 
comment. 

"  I've  heard  of  fellows,"  grumbled  Broncho  Leathers, 
"  what  was  wedded  to  danger,  but  if  Bob  Buckley  ain't 
committed  bigamy  with  trouble,  I'm  a  son  of  a  gun." 

"  Peculiarness  of  Bob  is,"  inserted  the  Nueces  Kid, 
''  he  ain't  had  proper  trainin'.  He  never  learned  how 
to  git  skeered.  Now,  a  man  ought  to  be  skeered  enough 
when  he  tackles  a  fuss  to  hanker  after  readin'  his  name 
on  the  list  of  survivors,  anyway." 

"  Buckley,"  commented  Ranger  No.  3,  who  was  a 
misguided  Eastern  man,  burdened  with  an  education, 
"  scraps  in  such  a  solemn  manner  that  I  have  been  led 
to  doubt  its  spontaneity.  I'm  not  quite  onto  his  sys- 
tem, but  he  fights,  like  Tybalt,  by  the  book  of  arith- 
metic." 

"  I  never  heard,"  mentioned  Broncho,  "  about  any  of 
Dibble's  ways  of  mixin'  scrappin'  and  cipherin'." 

"  Triggernometry  ?  "  suggested  the  Nueces  infant. 

"  That's  rather  better  than  I  hoped  from  you," 
nodded  the  Easterner,  approvingly.  "  The  other  mean- 
ing is  that  Buckley  never  goes  into  a  fight  without  giv- 
ing away  weight.  He  seems  to  dread  taking  the  slight- 
est advantage.  That's  quite  close  to  foolhardiness 
when  you  are  dealing  with  horse-thieves  and  fence-cut- 
ters who  would  ambush  you  any  night,  and  shoot  you  in 
the  back  if  they  could.  Buckley's  too  full  of  sand. 
He'll  play  Horatius  and  hold  the  bridge  once  too  often 
some  day." 

"I'm   on  there,"   drawled   the   Kid;   "I  mind  that 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  117 

bridge  gang  in  the  reader.  Me,  I  go  instructed  for 
the  other  chap  —  Spurious  Somebody  —  the  one  that 
fought  and  pulled  his  freight,  to  fight  'em  on  some 
other  date." 

"  Anyway,"  summed  up  Broncho,  "  Bob's  about  the 
gamest  man  I  ever  see  along  the  Rio  Bravo.  Great 
Sam  Houston !  If  she  gets  any  hotter  she'll  sizzle ! " 
Broncho  whacked  at  a  scorpion  with  his  four-pound 
Stetson  felt,  and  the  three  watchers  relapsed  into  com- 
fortless silence. 

How  well  Bob  Buckley  had  kept  his  secret,  since  these 
men,  for  two  years  his  side  comrades  in  countless  bor- 
der raids  and  dangers,  thus  spake  of  him,  not  knowing 
that  he  was  the  most  arrant  physical  coward  in  all  that 
Rio  Bravo  country!  Neither  his  friends  nor  his  ene- 
mies had  suspected  him  of  aught  else  than  the  finest 
courage.  It  was  purely  a  physical  cowardice,  and  only 
by  an  extreme,  grim  effort  of  will  had  he  forced  his 
craven  body  to  do  the  bravest  deeds.  Scourging  him- 
self always,  as  a  monk  whips  his  besetting  sin,  Buckley 
threw  himself  with  apparent  recklessness  into  every 
danger,  with  the  hope  of  some  day  ridding  himself  of 
the  despised  affliction.  But  each  successive  test  brought 
no  relief,  and  the  ranger's  face,  by  nature  adapted  to 
cheerfulness  and  good-humour,  became  set  to  the  guise 
of  gloomy  melancholy.  Thus,  while  the  frontier  ad- 
mired his  deeds,  and  his  prowess  was  celebrated  in  print 
and  by  word  of  mouth  in  many  camp-fires  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  Bravo,  his  heart  was  sick  within  him.  Only 
himself  knew  of  the  horrible  tightening  of  the  chest,  the 


118  Heart  of  the  West 

dry  mouth,  the  weakening  of  the  spine,  the  agony  of 
the  strung  nerves  —  the  never- failing  symptoms  of  his 
shameful  malady. 

One  mere  boy  in  his  company  was  wont  to  enter  a 
fray  with  a  leg  perched  flippantly  about  the  horn  of  his 
saddle,  a  cigarette  hanging  from  his  lips,  which  emitted 
smoke  and  original  slogans  of  clever  invention.  Buck- 
ley would  have  given  a  year's  pay  to  attain  that  devil- 
may-care  method.  Once  the  debonair  youth  said  to 
him :  "  Buck,  you  go  into  a  scrap  like  it  was  a  funeral. 
Not,'*  he  added,  with  a  complimentary  wave  of  his  tin 
cup,  "  but  what  it  generally  is." 

Buckley's  conscience  was  of  the  New  England  order 
with  Western  adjustments,  and  he  continued  to  get  his 
rebellious  body  into  as  many  difficulties  as  possible; 
wherefore,  on  that  sultry  afternoon  he  chose  to  drive 
his  own  protesting  limbs  to  investigation  of  that  sudden 
alarm  that  had  startled  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the 
State. 

Two  squares  down  the  street  stood  the  Top  Notch 
Saloon.  Here  Buckley  came  upon  signs  of  recent  up- 
heaval. A  few  curious  spectators  pressed  about  its 
front  entrance,  grinding  beneath  their  heels  the  frag- 
ments of  a  plate-glass  window.  Inside,  Buckley  found 
Bud  Dawson  utterly  ignoring  a  bullet  wound  in  his 
shoulder,  while  he  feelingly  wept  at  having  to  explain 
why  he  failed  to  drop  the  "  blamed  masquerooter,"  who 
shot  him.  At  the  entrance  of  the  ranger  Bud  turned 
appealingly  to  him  for  confirmation  of  the  devastation 
he  might  have  dealt. 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  119 

"  You  know,  Buck,  I'd  'a'  plum  got  him,  first  rattle, 
if  I'd  thought  a  minute.  Come  in  a-masque-rootin', 
playin'  female  till  he  got  the  drop,  and  turned  loose.  I 
never  reached  for  a  gun,  thinkin'  it  was  sure  Chihuahua 
Betty,  or  Mrs.  Atwater,  or  anyhow  one  of  the  May- 
field  girls  comin'  a-gunnin',  which  they  might,  liable  as 
not.  I  never  thought  of  that  blamed  Garcia  until  — " 

"  Garcia !  "  snapped  Buckley.  "  How  did  he  get 
over  here  ?  " 

Bud's  bartender  took  the  ranger  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  to  the  side  door.  There  stood  a  patient  grey  burro 
cropping  the  grass  along  the  gutter,  with  a  load  of 
kindling  wood  tied  across  its  back.  On  the  ground  lay 
a  black  shawl  and  a  voluminous  brown  dress. 

"  Masquerootin'  in  them  things,"  called  Bud,  still 
resisting  attempted  ministrations  to  his  wounds, 
"  Thought  he  was  a  lady  till  he  give  a  yell  and  winged 
me." 

"  He  went  down  this  side  street,"  said  the  bartender. 
K  He  was  alone,  and  he'll  hide  out  till  night  when  his 
gang  comes  over.  You  ought  to  find  him  in  that  Mexi- 
can lay-out  below  the  depot.  He's  got  a  girl  down  there 
—  Pancha  Sales." 

"  How  was  he  armed?  "  asked  Buckley. 

"  Two  pearl-handled  sixes,  and  a  knife." 

"  Keep  this  for  me,  Billy,"  said  the  ranger,  handing 
over  his  Winchester.  Quixotic,  perhaps,  but  it  was  Bob 
Buckley's  way.  Another  man  —  and  a  braver  one  — 
might  have  raised  a  posse  to  accompany  him.  It  was 
Buckley's  rule  to  discard  all  preliminary  advantage. 


120  Heart  of  the  West 

The  Mexican  had  left  behind  him  a  wake  of  closed 
doors  and  an  empty  street,  but  now  people  were  begin- 
ning to  emerge  from  their  places  of  refuge  with  assumed 
unconsciousness  of  anything  having  happened.  Many 
citizens  who  knew  the  ranger  pointed  out  to  him  with 
alacrity  the  course  of  Garcia's  retreat. 

As  Buckley  swung  along  upon  the  trail  he  felt  the 
beginning  of  the  suffocating  constriction  about  his 
throat,  the  cold  sweat  under  the  brim  of  his  hat,  the  old, 
shameful,  dreaded  sinking  of  his  heart  as  it  went  down, 
down,  down  in  his  bosom. 

The  morning  train  of  the  Mexican  Central  had  that 
day  been  three  hours  late,  thus  failing  to  connect  with 
the  I.  &  G.  N.  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Passen- 
gers for  Los  Estados  Unidos  grumblingly  sought  enter- 
tainment in  the  little  swaggering  mongrel  town  of  two 
nations,  for,  until  the  morrow,  no  other  train  would 
come  to  rescue  them.  Grumblingly,  because  two  days 
later  would  begin  the  great  fair  and  races  in  San  An- 
tone.  Consider  that  at  that  time  San  Antone  was  the 
hub  of  the  wheel  of  Fortune,  and  the  names  of  its 
spokes  were  Cattle,  Wool,  Faro,  Running  Horses,  and 
Ozone.  In  those  times  cattlemen  played  at  crack-loo  on 
the  sidewalks  with  double-eagles,  and  gentlemen  backed 
their  conception  of  the  fortuitous  card  with  stacks  lim- 
ited in  height  only  by  the  interference  of  gravity. 
Wherefore,  thither  journeyed  the  sowers  and  the  reap- 
ers —  they  who  stampeded  the  dollars,  and  they  who 
rounded  them  up.  Especially  did  the  caterers  to  the 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  121 

amusement  of  the  people  haste  to  San  Antone.  Two 
greatest  shows  on  earth  were  already  there,  and  dozens 
of  smallest  ones  were  on  the  way. 

On  a  side  track  near  the  mean  little  'dobe  depot  stood 
a  private  car,  left  there  by  the  Mexican  train  that  morn- 
ing and  doomed  by  an  ineffectual  schedule  to  ignobly 
await,  amid  squalid  surroundings,  connection  with  the 
next  day's  regular. 

The  car  had  been  once  a  common  day-coach,  but  those 
who  had  sat  in  it  and  cringed  to  the  conductor's  hat- 
band slips  would  never  have  recognised  it  in  its  trans- 
formation. Paint  and  gilding  and  certain  domestic 
touches  had  liberated  it  from  any  suspicion  of  public 
servitude.  The  whitest  of  lace  curtains  judiciously 
screened  its  windows.  From  its  fore  end  drooped  in 
the  torrid  air  the  flag  of  Mexico.  From  its  rear  pro- 
jected the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  a  busy  stovepipe,  the 
latter  reinforcing  in  its  suggestion  of  culinary  comforts 
the  general  suggestion  of  privacy  and  ease.  The  be- 
holder's eye,  regarding  its  gorgeous  sides,  found  inter- 
est to  culminate  in  a  single  name  in  gold  and  blue  let- 
ters extending  almost  its  entire  length  —  a  single  name, 
the  audacious  privilege  of  royalty  and  genius.  Doubly, 
then,  was  this  arrogant  nomenclature  here  justified;  for 
the  name  was  that  of  "  Alvarita,  Queen  of  the  Serpent 
Tribe."  This,  her  car,  was  back  from  a  triumphant 
tour  of  the  principal  Mexican  cities,  and  now  headed 
for  San  Antonio,  where,  according  to  promissory  ad- 
vertisement, she  would  exhibit  her  "  Marvellous  Do- 
minion and  Fearless  Control  over  Deadly  and  Venomous 


122  Heart  of  the  West 

Serpents,  Handling  them  with  Ease  as  they  Coil  and 
Hiss  to  the  Terror  of  Thousands  of  Tongue-tied  Trem- 
blers!" 

One  hundred  in  the  shade  kept  the  vicinity  somewhat 
depeopled.  This  quarter  of  the  town  was  a  ragged 
edge ;  its  denizens  the  bubbling  froth  of  five  nations ;  its 
architecture  tent,  jacal,  and  'dobe;  its  distractions  the 
hurdy-gurdy  and  the  informal  contribution  to  the  sud- 
den stranger's  store  of  experience.  Beyond  this  dis- 
honourable fringe  upon  the  old  town's  jowl  rose  a  dense 
mass  of  trees,  surmounting  and  filling  a  little  hollow. 
Through  this  bickered  a  small  stream  that  perished 
down  the  sheer  and  disconcerting  side  of  the  great 
canon  of  the  Rio  Bravo  del  Norte. 

In  this  sordid  spot  was  condemned  to  remain  for  cer- 
tain hours  the  impotent  transport  of  the  Queen  of  the 
Serpent  Tribe. 

The  front  door  of  the  car  was  open.  Its  forward 
end  was  curtained  off  into  a  small  reception-room. 
Here  the  admiring  and  propitiatory  reporters  were  wont 
to  sit  and  transpose  the  music  of  Sefiorita  Alvarita's 
talk  into  the  more  florid  key  of  the  press.  A  picture  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  hung  against  a  wall;  one  of  a  cluster 
of  school-girls  grouped  upon  stone  steps  was  in  another 
place ;  a  third  was  Easter  lilies  in  a  blood-red  frame.  A 
neat  carpet  was  under  foot.  A  pitcher,  sweating  cold 
drops,  and  a  glass  stood  upon  a  fragile  stand.  In  a  wil- 
low rocker,  reading  a  newspaper,  sat  Alvarita. 

Spanish,  you  would  say;  Andalusian,  or,  better  still, 
Basque;  that  compound,  like  the  diamond,  of  darkness 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  12B 

and  fire.  Hair,  the  shade  of  purple  grapes  viewed  at 
midnight.  Eyes,  long,  dusky,  and  disquieting  with  their 
untroubled  directness  of  gaze.  Face,  haughty  and  bold, 
touched  with  a  pretty  insolence  that  gave  it  life.  To 
hasten  conviction  of  her  charm,  but  glance  at  the  stacks 
of  handbills  in  the  corner,  green,  and  yellow,  and  white. 
Upon  them  you  see  an  incompetent  presentment  of  the 
seiiorita  in  her  professional  garb  and  pose.  Irresistible, 
in  black  lace  and  yellow  ribbons,  she  faces  you;  a  blue 
racer  is  spiralled  upon  each  bare  arm ;  coiled  twice  about 
her  waist  and  once  about  her  neck,  his  horrid  head  close 
to  hers,  you  perceive  Kuku,  the  great  eleven-foot  Asian 
python. 

A  hand  drew  aside  the  curtain  that  partitioned  the 
car,  and  a  middle-aged,  faded  woman  holding  a  knife 
and  a  half -peeled  potato  looked  in  and  said: 

"  Alviry,  are  you  right  busy  ?  " 

"  I'm  reading  the  home  paper,  ma.  What  do  you 
think !  that  pale,  tow-headed  Matilda  Price  got  the  most 
votes  in  the  News  for  the  prettiest  girl  in  Gallipo  — 


"  Shuh !  She  wouldn't  of  done  it  if  you'd  been  home, 
Alviry.  Lord  knows,  I  hope  we'll  be  there  before  fall's 
ever.  I'm  tired  gallopin'  round  the  world  play  in'  we  are 
dagoes,  and  givin'  snake  shows.  But  that  ain't  what  I 
wanted  to  say.  That  there  biggest  snake's  gone  again. 
I've  looked  all  over  the  car  and  can't  find  him.  He  must 
have  been  gone  an  hour.  I  remember  hearin'  somethin* 
rustlin'  along  the  floor,  but  I  thought  it  was  you." 

"  Oh,  blame  that  old  rascal ! "  exclaimed  the  Queen* 


124  Heart  of  the  West 

throwing  down  her  paper.  "  This  is  the  third  time 
he's  got  away.  George  never  will  fasten  down  the  lid 
to  his  box  properly.  I  do  believe  he's  afraid  of  Kuku. 
Now  I've  got  to  go  hunt  him." 

"  Better  hurry ;  somebody  might  hurt  him." 

The  Queen's  teeth  showed  in  a  gleaming,  contemp- 
tuous smile.  u  No  danger.  When  they  see  Kuku  out- 
side they  simply  scoot  away  and  buy  bromides.  There's 
a  crick  over  between  here  and  the  river.  That  old 
scamp'd  swap  his  skin  any  time  for  a  drink  of  run- 
ning water.  I  guess  I'll  find  him  there,  all  right." 

A  few  minutes  later  Alvarita  stepped  upon  the  for- 
ward platform,  ready  for  her  quest.  Her  handsome 
black  skirt  was  shaped  to  the  most  recent  proclama- 
tion of  fashion.  Her  spotless  shirt-waist  gladdened  the 
eye  in  that  desert  of  sunshine,  a  swelling  oasis,  cool  and 
fresh.  A  man's  split-straw  hat  sat  firmly  upon  her  coiled, 
abundant  hair.  Beneath  her  serene,  round,  impudent 
chin  a  man's  four-in-hand  tie  was  jauntily  knotted  about 
a  man's  high,  stiff  collar.  A  parasol  she  carried,  of 
white  silk,  and  its  fringe  was  lace,  yellowly  genuine. 

I  will  grant  Gallipolis  as  to  her  costume,  but  firmly 
to  Seville  or  Valladolid  I  am  held  by  her  eyes;  cas- 
tanets, balconies,  mantillas,  serenades,  ambuscades,  es- 
capades —  all  these  their  dark  depths  guaranteed. 

"Ain't  you  afraid  to  go  out  alone,  Alviry?  "  queried 
the  Queen-mother  anxiously.  "  There's  so  many  rough 
people  about.  Mebbe  you'd  better — " 

"  I  never  saw  anything  I  was  afraid  of  yet,  ma. 
'Specially  people.  And  men  in  particular.  Don't  you 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  125 

fret.  I'll  trot  along  back  as  soon  as  I  find  that  run- 
away scamp." 

The  dust  lay  thick  upon  the  bare  ground  near  the 
tracks.  Alvarita's  eye  soon  discovered  the  serrated  trail 
of  the  escaped  python.  It  led  across  the  depot  grounds 
and  away  down  a  smaller  street  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  canon,  as  predicted  by  her.  A  stillness  and  lack 
of  excitement  in  the  neighbourhood  encouraged  the  hope 
that,  as  yet,  the  inhabitants  were  unaware  that  so  for- 
midable a  guest  traversed  their  highways.  The  heat  had 
driven  them  indoors,  whence  outdrifted  occasional  shrill 
laughs,  or  the  depressing  whine  of  a  maltreated  con- 
certina. In  the  shade  a  few  Mexican  children,  like 
vivified  stolid  idols  in  clay,  stared  from  their  play,  vision- 
struck  and  silent,  as  Alvarita  came  and  went.  Here  and 
there  a  woman  peeped  from  a  door  and  stood  dumb,  re- 
duced to  silence  by  the  aspect  of  the  white  silk  parasol. 

A  hundred  yards  and  the  limits  of  the  town  were 
passed,  scattered  chaparral  succeeding,  and  then  a  noble 
grove,  overflowing  the  bijou  canon.  Through  this  a 
small  bright  stream  meandered.  Park-like  it  was,  with 
a  kind  of  cockney  ruralness  further  indorsed  by  the 
waste  papers  and  rifled  tins  of  picnickers.  Up  this 
stream,  and  down  it,  among  its  pseudo-sylvan  glades  and 
depressions,  wandered  the  bright  and  unruffled  Alvarita. 
Once  she  saw  evidence  of  the  recreant  reptile's  progress 
in  his  distinctive  trail  across  a  spread  of  fine  sand  in  the 
arroyo.  The  living  water  was  bound  to  lure  him;  he 
could  not  be  far  away. 

So  sure  was  she  of  his  immediate  proximity  that  she 


126  Heart  of  the  West 

perched  herself  to  idle  for  a  time  in  the  curve  of  a 
great  creeper  that  looped  down  from  a  giant  water- 
elm.  To  reach  this  she  climbed  from  the  pathway  a 
little  distance  up  the  side  of  a  steep  and  rugged  in- 
cline. Around  her  chaparral  grew  thick  and  high.  A 
late-blooming  ratama  tree  dispensed  from  its  yellow 
petals  a  sweet  and  persistent  odour.  Adown  the  ravine 
rustled  a  sedative  wind,  melancholy  with  the  taste  of 
sodden,  fallen  leaves. 

Alvarita  removed  her  hat,  and  undoing  the  oppres- 
sive convolutions  of  her  hair,  began  to  slowly  arrange 
it  in  two  long,  dusky  plaits. 

From  the  obscure  depths  of  a  thick  clump  of  ever- 
green shrubs  five  feet  away,  two  small  jewel-bright 
eyes  were  steadfastly  regarding  her.  Coiled  there  lay 
Kuku,  the  great  python;  Kuku,  the  magnificent,  he 
of  the  plated  muzzle,  the  grooved  lips,  the  eleven-foot 
stretch  of  elegantly  and  brilliantly  mottled  skin.  The 
great  python  was  viewing  his  mistress  without  a  sound 
or  motion  to  disclose  his  presence.  Perhaps  the  splendid 
truant  forefelt  his  capture,  but,  screened  by  the  foliage, 
thought  to  prolong  the  delight  of  his  escapade.  What 
pleasure  it  was,  after  the  hot  and  dusty  car,  to  lie  thus, 
smelling  the  running  water,  and  feeling  the  agreeable 
roughness  of  the  earth  and  stones  against  his  body! 
Soon,  very  soon  the  Queen  would  find  him,  and  he,  power- 
less as  a  worm  in  her  audacious  hands,  would  be  returned 
to  the  dark  chest  in  the  narrow  house  that  ran  on  wheels. 

Alvarita  heard  a  sudden  crunching  of  the  gravel  be- 
low her.  Turning  her  head  she  saw  a  big,  swarthy 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  127 

Mexican,  with  a  daring  and  evil  expression,  contem- 
plating her  with  an  ominous,  dull  eye. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked  as  sharply  as  five 
hairpins  between  her  lips  would  permit,  continuing  to 
plait  her  hair,  and  looking  him  over  with  placid  con- 
tempt. The  Mexican  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  and 
showed  his  teeth  in  a  white,  j  agged  smile. 

"  I  no  hurt-y  you,  Senorita,"  he  said. 

"  You  bet  you  won't,"  answered  the  Queen,  shaking 
back  one  finished,  massive  plait.  "  But  don't  you  think 
you'd  better  move  on?  " 

"  Not  hurt-y  you  —  no.  But  maybeso  take  one  beso 
—  one  li'l  kees,  you  call  him." 

The  man  smiled  again,  and  set  his  foot  to  ascend  the 
slope.  Alvarita  leaned  swiftly  and  picked  up  a  stone 
the  size  of  a  cocoanut. 

"  Vamoose,  quick,"  she  ordered  peremptorily,  "  you 
coon!  " 

The  red  of  insult  burned  through  the  Mexican's  dark 
skin. 

"  Hidalgo,  Yo!  "  he  shot  between  his  fangs.  "  I 
am  not  neg-r-ro!  Diablo,  bonita,  for  that  you  shall 
pay  me." 

He  made  two  quick  upward  steps  this  time,  but  the 
stone,  hurled  by  no  weak  arm,  struck  him  square  in  the 
chest.  He  staggered  back  to  the  footway,  swerved  half 
around,  and  met  another  sight  that  drove  all  thoughts 
of  the  girl  from  his  head.  She  turned  her  eyes  to  see 
what  had  diverted  his  interest.  A  man  with  red-brown, 
curling  hair  and  a  melancholy,  sunburned,  smooth- 


128  Heart  of  the  West 

shaven  face  was  coming  up  the  path,  twenty  yards 
away.  Around  the  Mexican's  waist  was  buckled  a  pis- 
tol belt  with  two  empty  holsters.  He  had  laid  aside  his 
sixes  —  possibly  in  the  jacal  of  the  fair  Pancha  —  and 
had  forgotten  them  when  the  passing  of  the  fairer  Al- 
Tarita  had  enticed  him  to  her  trail.  His  hands  now  flew 
instinctively  to  the  holsters,  but  finding  the  weapons 
gone,  he  spread  his  fingers  outward  with  the  eloquent, 
abjuring,  deprecating  Latin  gesture,  and  stood  like  a 
rock.  Seeing  his  plight,  the  newcomer  unbuckled  his 
own  belt  containing  two  revolvers,  threw  it  upon  the 
ground,  and  continued  to  advance. 

"  Splendid ! "  murmured  Alvarita,  with  flashing  eyes. 

As  Bob  Buckley,  according  to  the  mad  code  of 
bravery  that  his  sensitive  conscience  imposed  upon  his 
cowardly  nerves,  abandoned  his  guns  and  closed  in  upon 
his  enemy,  the  old,  inevitable  nausea  of  abject  fear 
wrung  him.  His  breath  whistled  through  his  constricted 
air  passages.  His  feet  seemed  like  lumps  of  lead.  His 
mouth  was  dry  as  dust.  His  heart,  congested  with 
blood,  hurt  his  ribs  as  it  thumped  against  them.  The 
hot  June  day  turned  to  moist  November.  And  still  he 
advanced,  spurred  by  a  mandatory  pride  that  strained 
its  uttermost  against  his  weakling  flesh. 

The  distance  between  the  two  men  slowly  lessened. 
The  Mexican  stood,  immovable,  waiting.  When  scarce 
five  yards  separated  them  a  little  shower  of  loosened 
gravel  rattled  down  from  above  to  the  ranger's  feet. 
He  glanced  upward  with  instinctive  caution.  A  pair  of 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  129 

dark  eyes,  brilliantly  soft,  and  fierily  tender,  encountered 
and  held  his  own.  The  most  fearful  heart  and  the  bold- 
est one  in  all  the  Rio  Bravo  country  exchanged  a  silent 
and  inscrutable  communication.  Alvarita,  still  seated 
within  her  vine,  leaned  forward  above  the  breast-high, 
chaparral.  One  hand  was  laid  across  her  bosom.  One 
great  dark  braid  curved  forward  over  her  shoulder.  Her 
lips  were  parted ;  her  face  was  lit  with  what  seemed  but 
wonder  —  great  and  absolute  wonder.  Her  eyes  lingered 
upon  Buckley's.  Let  no  one  ask  or  presume  to  tell 
through  what  subtle  medium  the  miracle  was  performed. 
As  by  a  lightning  flash  two  clouds  will  accomplish  coun- 
terpoise and  compensation  of  electric  surcharge,  so  on 
that  eyeglance  the  man  received  his  complement  of  man- 
hood, and  the  maid  conceded  what  enriched  her  womanly 
grace  by  its  loss. 

The  Mexican,  suddenly  stirring,  ventilated  his  at- 
titude of  apathetic  waiting  by  conjuring  swiftly  from 
his  bootleg  a  long  knife.  Buckley  cast  aside  his  hat, 
and  laughed  once  aloud,  like  a  happy  school-boy  at  a 
frolic.  Then,  empty-handed,  he  sprang  nimbly,  and 
Garcia  met  him  without  default. 

So  soon  was  the  engagement  ended  that  disappoint- 
ment imposed  upon  the  ranger's  warlike  ecstasy.  In- 
stead of  dealing  the  traditional  downward  stroke,  the 
Mexican  lunged  straight  with  his  knife.  Buckley  took 
the  precarious  chance,  and  caught  his  wrist,  fair  and 
firm.  Then  he  delivered  the  good  Saxon  knock-out  blow 
—  always  so  pathetically  disastrous  to  the  fistless  Latin 
races  —  and  Garcia  was  down  and  out,  with  his  head 


130  Heart  of  the  West 

under  a  clump  of  prickly  pears.  The  ranger  looked  up 
again  to  the  Queen  of  the  Serpents. 

Alvarita  scrambled  down  to  the  path. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  I  happened  along  when  I  did," 
said  the  ranger. 

"  He  —  he  frightened  me  so  !  "  cooed  Alvarita. 

They  did  not  hear  the  long,  low  hiss  of  the  python 
under  the  shrubs.  Wiliest  of  the  beasts,  no  doubt  he 
was  expressing  the  humiliation  he  felt  at  having  so 
long  dwelt  in  subjection  to  this  trembling  and  colour- 
ing mistress  of  his  whom  he  had  deemed  so  strong  and 
potent  and  fearsome. 

Then  came  galloping  to  the  spot  the  civic  authorities ; 
and  to  them  the  ranger  awarded  the  prostrate  disturber 
of  the  peace,  whom  they  bore  away  limply  across  the 
saddle  of  one  of  their  mounts.  But  Buckley  and  Al- 
yarita  lingered. 

Slowly,  slowly  they  walked.  The  ranger  regained 
his  belt  of  weapons.  With  a  fine  timidity  she  begged 
the  indulgence  of  fingering  the  great  .04<5's,  with  little 
"  Ohs  "  and  "  Ahs  "  of  new-born,  delicious  shyness. 

The  ccvnoncito  was  growing  dusky.  Beyond  its 
terminus  in  the  river  bluff  they  could  see  the  outer  world 
yet  suffused  with  the  waning  glory  of  sunset. 

A  scream  —  a  piercing  scream  of  fright  from  Alva- 
rita. Back  she  cowered,  and  the  ready,  protecting  arm 
of  Buckley  formed  her  refuge.  What  terror  so  dire 
as  to  thus  beset  the  close  of  the  reign  of  the  never-be- 
fore-daunted Queen? 


An  Afternoon  Miracle  131 

Across  the  path  there  crawled  a  caterpillar  —  a 
horrid,  fuzzy,  two-inch  caterpillar !  Truly,  Kuku,  thou 
wert  avenged.  Thus  abdicated  the  Queen  of  the  Ser- 
pent Tribe  —  viva  la  reinaf 


IX 

THE  HIGHER  ABDICATION 

CURLY  the  tramp  sidled  toward  the  free-lunch  coun- 
ter. He  caught  a  fleeting  glance  from  the  bartender's 
eye,  and  stood  still,  trying  to  look  like  a  business  man 
who  had  just  dined  at  the  Menger  and  was  waiting  for 
a  friend  who  had  promised  to  pick  him  up  in  his  motor 
car.  Curly's  histrionic  powers  were  equal  to  the  imper- 
sonation ;  but  his  make-up  was  wanting. 

The  bartender  rounded  the  bar  in  a  casual  way,  look- 
ing up  at  the  ceiling  as  though  he  was  pondering  some 
intricate  problem  of  kalsomining,  and  then  fell  upon 
Curly  so  suddenly  that  the  roadster  had  no  excuses  ready. 
Irresistibly,  but  so  composedly  that  it  seemed  almost 
absentmindedness  on  his  part,  the  dispenser  of  drinks 
pushed  Curly  to  the  swinging  doors  and  kicked  him  out, 
with  a  nonchalance  that  almost  amounted  to  sadness. 
That  was  the  way  of  the  Southwest. 

Curly  arose  from  the  gutter  leisurely.  He  felt  no 
anger  or  resentment  toward  his  ejector.  Fifteen  years 
of  tramphood  spent  out  of  the  twenty-two  years  of 
his  life  had  hardened  the  fibres  of  his  spirit.  The  slings 
and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  fell  blunted  from  the 

buckler  of  his  armoured  pride.     With  especial  resigna- 

132 


The  Higher  Abdication  138 

tion  did  he  suffer  contumely  and  injury  at  the  hands  of 
bartenders.  Naturally,  they  were  his  enemies ;  and  un- 
naturally, they  were  often  his  friends.  He  had  to  take 
his  chances  with  them.  But  he  had  not  yet  learned  to 
estimate  these  cool,  languid,  Southwestern  knights  of 
the  bungstarter,  who  had  the  manners  of  an  Earl  of  Paw- 
tucket,  and  who,  when  they  disapproved  of  your  pres- 
ence, moved  you  with  the  silence  and  despatch  of  a  chess 
automaton  advancing  a  pawn. 

Curly  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  the  narrow,  mes- 
quite-paved  street.  San  Antonio  puzzled  and  disturbed 
him.  Three  days  he  had  been  a  non-paying  guest  of 
the  town,  having  dropped  off  there  from  a  box  car  of 
an  I.  &  G.  N.  freight,  because  Greaser  Johnny  had  told 
him  in  Des  Moines  that  the  Alamo  City  was  manna  fallen, 
gathered,  cooked,  and  served  free  with  cream  and  sugar. 
Curly  had  found  the  tip  partly  a  good  one.  There  was 
hospitality  in  plenty  of  a  careless,  liberal,  irregular  sort. 
But  the  town  itself  was  a  weight  upon  his  spirits  after 
his  experience  with  the  rushing,  business-like,  systema- 
tised  cities  of  the  North  and  East.  Here  he  was  often 
flung  a  dollar,  but  too  frequently  a  good-natured  kick 
would  follow  it.  Once  a  band  of  hilarious  cowboys  had 
roped  him  on  Military  Plaza  and  dragged  him  across 
the  black  soil  until  no  respectable  rag-bag  would  have 
stood  sponsor  for  his  clothes.  The  winding,  doubling 
streets,  leading  nowhere,  bewildered  him.  And  then 
there  was  a  little  river,  crooked  as  a  pot-hook,  that 
crawled  through  the  middle  of  the  town,  crossed  by  a 
hundred  little  bridges  so  nearly  alike  that  they  got  on 


134  Heart  of  the  West 

Curly's  nerves.  And  the  last  bartender  wore  a  number 
nine  shoe. 

The  saloon  stood  on  a  corner.  The  hour  was  eight 
o'clock.  Homefarers  and  outgoers  jostled  Curly  on  the 
narrow  stone  sidewalk.  Between  the  buildings  to  his 
left  he  looked  down  a  cleft  that  proclaimed  itself  an- 
other thoroughfare.  The  alley  was  dark  except  for  one 
patch  of  light.  Where  there  was  light  there  were  sure 
to  be  human  beings.  Where  there  were  human  beings 
after  nightfall  in  San  Antonio  there  might  be  food,  and 
there  was  sure  to  be  drink.  So  Curly  headed  for  the 
light. 

The  illumination  came  from  Schwegel's  Cafe.  On 
the  sidewalk  in  front  of  it  Curly  picked  up  an  old 
envelope.  It  might  have  contained  a  check  for  a  million. 
It  was  empty ;  but  the  wanderer  read  the  address,  "  Mr. 
Otto  Schwegel,"  and  the  name  of  the  town  and  State. 
The  postmark  was  Detroit. 

Curly  entered  the  saloon.  And  now  in  the  light  it 
could  be  perceived  that  he  bore  the  stamp  of  many 
years  of  vagabondage.  He  had  none  of  the  tidiness 
of  the  calculating  and  shrewd  professional  tramp.  His 
wardrobe  represented  the  cast-off  specimens  of  half  a 
dozen  fashions  and  eras.  Two  factories  had  combined 
their  efforts  in  providing  shoes  for  his  feet.  As  you 
gazed  at  him  there  passed  through  your  mind  vague  im- 
pressions of  mummies,  wax  figures,  Russian  exiles,  and 
men  lost  on  desert  islands.  His  face  was  covered  al- 
most to  his  eyes  with  a  curly  brown  beard  that  he  kept 
trimmed  short  with  a  pocket-knife,  and  that  had  fur- 


The  Higher  Abdication  135 

nished  him  with  his  nom  de  route.  Light-blue  eyes,  full 
of  sullenness,  fear,  cunning,  impudence,  and  fawning, 
witnessed  the  stress  that  had  been  laid  upon  his  soul. 

The  saloon  was  .small,  and  in  its  atmosphere  the 
odours  of  meat  and  drink  struggled  for  the  ascendency. 
The  pig  and  the  cabbage  wrestled  with  hydrogen  and 
oxygen.  Behind  the  bar  Schwegel  laboured  with  an  as- 
sistant whose  epidermal  pores  showed  no  signs  of  being 
obstructed.  Hot  Wienerwurst  and  sauerkraut  were  be- 
ing served  to  purchasers  of  beer.  Curly  shuffled  to  the 
end  of  the  bar,  coughed  hollowly,  and  told  Schwegel  that 
he  was  a  Detroit  cabinet-maker  out  of  a  job. 

It  followed  as  the  night  the  day  that  he  got  his 
schooner  and  lunch. 

"  Was  you  acquainted  maybe  mit  Heinrich  Strauss 
in  Detroit  ?  "  asked  Schwegel. 

"  Did  I  know  Heinrich  Strauss  ?  "  repeated  Curly, 
affectionately.  "  Why,  say,  'Bo,  I  wish  I  had  a  dollar 
for  every  game  of  pinocle  me  and  Heine  has  played  on 
Sunday  afternoons." 

More  beer  and  a  second  plate  of  steaming  food  was 
set  before  the  diplomat.  And  then  Curly,  knowing  to 
a  fluid-drachm  how  far  a  "  con  "  game  would  go,  shuffled 
out  into  the  unpromising  street. 

And  now  he  began  to  perceive  the  inconveniences  of 
this  stony  Southern  town.  There  was  none  of  the  out- 
door gaiety  and  brilliancy  and  music  that  provided  dis- 
traction even  to  the  poorest  in  the  cities  of  the  North. 
Here,  even  so  early,  the  gloomy,  rock-walled  houses  were 
closed  and  barred  against  the  murky  dampness  of  the 


136  Heart  of  the  West 

night.  The  streets  were  mere  fissures  through  which 
flowed  grey  wreaths  of  river  mist.  As  he  walked  he 
heard  laughter  and  the  chink  of  coin  and  chips  behind 
darkened  windows,  and  music  coming  from  every  chink 
of  wood  and  stone.  But  the  diversions  were  selfish ;  the 
day  of  popular  pastimes  had  not  yet  come  to  San 
Antonio. 

But  at  length  Curly,  as  he  strayed,  turned  the  sharp 
angle  of  another  lost  street  and  came  upon  a  rollicking 
band  of  stockmen  from  the  outlying  ranches  celebrating 
in  the  open  in  front  of  an  ancient  wooden  hotel.  One 
great  roisterer  from  the  sheep  country  who  had  just 
instigated  a  movement  toward  the  bar,  swept  Curly  in 
like  a  stray  goat  with  the  rest  of  his  flock.  The  princes 
of  kine  and  wool  hailed  him  as  a  new  zoological  dis- 
covery, and  uproariously  strove  to  preserve  him  in  the 
diluted  alcohol  of  their  compliments  and  regards. 

An  hour  afterward  Curly  staggered  from  the  hotel 
barroom  dismissed  by  his  fickle  friends,  whose  interest  in 
him  had  subsided  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen.  Full  — 
stoked  with  alcoholic  fuel  and  cargoed  with  food,  the 
only  question  remaining  to  disturb  him  was  that  of 
shelter  and  bed. 

A  drizzling,  cold  Texas  rain  had  begun  to  fall  — 
an  endless,  lazy,  unintermittent  downfall  that  lowered 
the  spirits  of  men  and  raised  a  reluctant  steam  from  the 
warm  stones  of  the  streets  and  houses.  Thus  comes  the 
"  norther  "  dousing  gentle  spring  and  amiable  autumn 
with  the  chilling  salutes  and  adieux  of  coming  and  de- 
parting winter. 


The  Higher  Abdication  137 

Curly  followed  his  nose  down  the  first  tortuous  street 
into  which  his  irresponsible  feet  conducted  him.  At 
the  lower  end  of  it,  on  the  bank  of  the  serpentine  stream, 
he  perceived  an  open  gate  in  a  cemented  rock  wall.  In- 
side he  saw  camp  fires  and  a  row  of  low  wooden  sheds 
built  against  three  sides  of  the  enclosing  wall.  He  en- 
tered the  enclosure.  Under  the  sheds  many  horses  were 
champing  at  their  oats  and  corn.  Many  wagons  and 
buckboards  stood  about  with  their  teams'  harness  thrown 
carelessly  upon  the  shafts  and  doubletrees.  Curly  recog- 
nised the  place  as  a  wagon-yard,  such  as  is  provided  by 
merchants  for  their  out-of-town  friends  and  customers. 
No  one  was  in  sight.  No  doubt  the  drivers  of  those 
wagons  were  scattered  about  the  town  "  seeing  the  ele- 
phant and  hearing  the  owl."  In  their  haste  to  become 
patrons  of  the  town's  dispensaries  of  mirth  and  good 
cheer  the  last  ones  to  depart  must  have  left  the  great 
wooden  gate  swinging  open. 

Curly  had  satisfied  the  hunger  of  an  anaconda  and 
the  thirst  of  a  camel,  so  he  was  neither  in  the  mood 
nor  the  condition  of  an  explorer.  He  zigzagged  his 
way  to  the  first  wagon  that  his  eyesight  distinguished 
in  the  semi-darkness  under  the  shed.  It  was  a  two- 
horse  wagon  with  a  top  of  white  canvas.  The  wagon 
was  half  filled  with  loose  piles  of  wool  sacks,  two  or 
three  great  bundles  of  grey  blankets,  and  a  number 
of  bales,  bundles,  and  boxes.  A  reasoning  eye  would 
have  estimated  the  load  at  once  as  ranch  supplies,  bound 
on  the  morrow  for  some  outlying  hacienda.  But  to  the 
drowsy  intelligence  of  Curly  they  represented  only 


138  Heart  of  the  West 

warmth  and  softness  and  protection  against  the  cold  hu- 
midity of  the  night.  After  several  unlucky  efforts,  at 
last  he  conquered  gravity  so  far  as  to  climb  over  a 
wheel  and  pitch  forward  upon  the  best  and  warmest  bed 
he  had  fallen  upon  in  many  a  day.  Then  he  became 
instinctively  a  burrowing  animal,  and  dug  his  way  like 
a  prairie-dog  down  among  the  sacks  and  blankets,  hid- 
ing himself  from  the  cold  air  as  snug  and  safe  as  a  bear 
in  his  den.  For  three  nights  sleep  had  visited  Curly 
only  in  broken  and  shivering  doses.  So  now,  when 
Morpheus  condescended  to  pay  him  a  call,  Curly  got 
such  a  strangle  hold  on  the  mythological  old  gentleman 
that  it  was  a  wonder  that  anyone  else  in  the  whole 
world  got  a  wink  of  sleep  that  night. 

Six  cowpunchers  of  the  Cibolo  Ranch  were  waiting 
around  the  door  of  the  ranch  store.  Their  ponies 
cropped  grass  near  by,  tied  in  the  Texas  fashion  — 
which  is  not  tied  at  all.  Their  bridle  reins  had  been 
dropped  to  the  earth,  which  is  a  more  effectual  way 
of  securing  them  (such  is  the  power  of  habit  and 
imagination)  than  you  could  devise  out  of  a  half -inch 
rope  and  a  live-oak  tree. 

These  guardians  of  the  cow  lounged  about,  each 
with  a  brown  cigarette  paper  in  his  hand,  and  gently 
but  unceasingly  cursed  Sam  Revell,  the  storekeeper. 
Sam  stood  in  the  door,  snapping  the  red  elastic  bands 
on  his  pink  madras  shirtsleeves  and  looking  down  af- 
fectionately at  the  only  pair  of  tan  shoes  within  a  forty- 
wile  radius.  His  offence  had  been  serious,  and  he  was 


The  Higher  Abdication  139 

divided  between  humble  apology  and  admiration  for  the 
beauty  of  his  raiment.  He  had  allowed  the  ranch  stock 
of  "  smoking  "  to  become  exhausted. 

"  I  thought  sure  there  was  another  case  of  it  under 
the  counter,  boys,"  he  explained.  "  But  it  happened 
to  be  catterdges." 

"  You've  sure  got  a  case  of  happenedicitis,"  said 
Poky  Rodgers,  fence  rider  of  the  Largo  Verde  potrero* 
"  Somebody  ought  to  happen  to  give  you  a  knock  on 
the  head  with  the  butt  end  of  a  quirt.  I've  rode  in  nine 
miles  for  some  tobacco ;  and  it  don't  appear  natural  and 
seemly  that  you  ought  to  be  allowed  to  live." 

"  The  boys  was  smokin'  cut  plug  and  dried  mes- 
quite  leaves  mixed  when  I  left,"  sighed  Mustang  Taylor, 
horse  wrangler  of  the  Three  Elm  camp.  "  They'll  be 
lookin'  for  me  back  by  nine.  They'll  be  settin'  up, 
with  their  papers  ready  to  roll  a  whiff  of  the  real  thing 
before  bedtime.  And  I've  got  to  tell  'em  that  this  pink- 
eyed,  sheep-headed,  sulphur-footed,  shirt-waisted  son  of 
a  calico  broncho,  Sam  Revell,  hasn't  got  no  tobacco  on 
hand." 

Gregorio  Falcon,  Mexican  vaquero  and  best  thrower 
of  the  rope  on  the  Cibolo,  pushed  his  heavy,  silver-em- 
broidered straw  sombrero  back  upon  his  thicket  of  jet 
black  curls,  and  scraped  the  bottoms  of  his  pockets  for  a 
few  crumbs  of  the  precious  weed. 

"  Ah,  Don  Samuel,"  he  said,  reproachfully,  but  with 
his  touch  of  Castilian  manners,  "  escuse  me.  Dthey  say 
dthe  jackrabbeet  and  dthe  sheep  have  dthe  most  leetle 
sesos  —  how  you  call  dthem  —  brain-es?  Ah  don'  be- 


140  Heart  of  the  West 

lieve  dthat,  Don  Samuel  —  escuse  me.  Ah  dthink  peo- 
ple w'at  don'  keep  esrnokin'  tobacco,  dthey  —  hot  you 
weel  escuse  me,  Don  Samuel." 

"  Now,  what's  the  use  of  chewin'  the  rag,  boys," 
said  the  untroubled  Sam,  stooping  over  to  rub  the 
toes  of  his  shoes  with  a  red-and-yellow  handkerchief. 
""  Ranse  took  the  order  for  some  more  smokin'  to  San 
Antone  with  him  Tuesday.  Pancho  rode  Ranse's  hoss 
back  yesterday;  and  Ranse  is  goin'  to  drive  the  wagon 
back  himself.  There  wa'n't  much  of  a  load  —  just  some 
woolsacks  and  blankets  and  nails  and  canned  peaches 
and  a  few  things  we  was  out  of.  I  look  for  Ranse  to  roll 
in  to-day  sure.  He's  an  early  starter  and  a  hell-to-split 
driver,  and  he  ought  to  be  here  not  far  from  sundown." 

"What  plugs  is  he  drivin'?"  asked  Mustang  Tay- 
lor, with  a  smack  of  hope  in  his  tones. 

"  The  buckboard  greys,"  said  Sam. 

"  I'll  wait  a  spell,  then,"  said  the  wrangler.  "  Them 
plugs  eat  up  a  trail  like  a  road-runner  swallowin'  a 
whip  snake.  And  you  may  bust  me  open  a  can  of  green- 
gage plums,  Sam,  while  I'm  waitin'  for  somethin'  bet- 
ter." 

"  Open  me  some  yellow  clings,"  ordered  Poky  Rodgers. 
"  I'll  wait,  too." 

The  tobaccoless  punchers  arranged  themselves  com- 
fortably on  the  steps  of  the  store.  Inside  Sam  chopped 
open  with  a  hatchet  the  tops  of  the  cans  of  fruit. 

The  store,  a  big,  white  wooden  building  like  a  barn, 
stood  fifty  yards  from  the  ranch-house.  Beyond  it  were 
the  horse  corrals;  and  still  farther  the  wool  sheds  and 


The  Higher  Abdication  141 

the  brush-topped  shearing  pens  —  for  the  Rancho 
Cibolo  raised  both  cattle  and  sheep.  Behind  the  store, 
at  a  little  distance,  were  the  grass-thatched  jacals  of 
the  Mexicans  who  bestowed  their  allegiance  upon  the 
Cibolo. 

The  ranch-house  was  composed  of  four  large  rooms, 
with  plastered  adobe  walls,  and  a  two-room  wooden  ell. 
A  twenty-feet-wide  "  gallery  "  circumvented  the  struc- 
ture. It  was  set  in  a  grove  of  immense  live-oaks  and 
water-elms  near  a  lake  —  a  long,  not  very  wide,  and  tre- 
mendously deep  lake  in  which  at  nightfall,  great  gars 
leaped  to  the  surface  and  plunged  with  the  noise  of  hip- 
popotamuses frolicking  at  their  bath.  From  the  trees 
hung  garlands  and  massive  pendants  of  the  melancholy 
grey  moss  of  the  South.  Indeed,  the  Cibolo  ranch- 
house  seemed  more  of  the  South  than  of  the  West.  It 
looked  as  if  old  "  Kiowa  "  Truesdell  might  have  brought 
it  with  him  from  the  lowlands  of  Mississippi  when  he 
came  to  Texas  with  his  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm- 
in  '55. 

But,  though  he  did  not  bring  the  family  mansion, 
Truesdell  did  bring  something  in  the  way  of  a  fam- 
ily inheritance  that  was  more  lasting  than  brick  or  stone. 
He  brought  one  end  of  the  Truesdell-Curtis  family 
feud.  And  when  a  Curtis  bought  the  Rancho  de  los 
Olmos,  sixteen  miles  from  the  Cibolo,  there  were  lively 
times  on  the  pear  flats  and  in  the  chaparral  thickets  off 
the  Southwest.  In  those  days  Truesdell  cleaned  the 
brush  of  many  a  wolf  and  tiger  cat  and  Mexican  lion; 
and  one  or  two  Curtises  fell  heirs  to  notches  on  his  rifle 


142  Heart  of  the  West 

stock.  Also  he  buried  a  brother  with  a  Curtis  bullet  in 
him  on  the  bank  of  the  lake  at  Cibolo.  And  then  the 
Kiowa  Indians  made  their  last  raid  upon  the  ranches 
between  the  Frio  and  the  Rio  Grande,  and  Truesdell  at 
the  head  of  his  rangers  rid  the  earth  of  them  to  the 
last  brave,  earning  his  sobriquet.  Then  came  prosper- 
ity in  the  form  of  waxing  herds  and  broadening  lands. 
And  then  old  age  and  bitterness,  when  he  sat,  with  his 
great  mane  of  hair  as  white  as  the  Spanish-dagger  blos- 
soms and  his  fierce,  pale-blue  eyes,  on  the  shaded  gallery 
at  Cibolo,  growling  like  the  pumas  that  he  had  slain. 
He  snapped  his  fingers  at  old  age;  the  bitter  taste  to 
life  did  not  come  from  that.  The  cup  that  stuck  at  his 
lips  was  that  his  only  son  Ransom  wanted  to  marry  a 
Curtis,  the  last  youthful  survivor  of  the  other  end  of  the 
feud. 

I 

For  a  while  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard  at  the  store 
were  the  rattling  of  the  tin  spoons  and  the  gurgling  in- 
take of  the  juicy  fruits  by  the  cowpunchers,  the  stamp- 
ing of  the  grazing  ponies,  and  the  singing  of  a  doleful 
song  by  Sam  as  he  contentedly  brushed  his  stiff  auburn 
hair  for  the  twentieth  time  that  day  before  a  crinkly 
mirror. 

From  the  door  of  the  store  could  be  seen  the  irreg- 
ular, sloping  stretch  of  prairie  to  the  south,  with  its 
reaches  of  light-green,  billowy  mesquite  flats  in  the 
lower  places,  and  its  rises  crowned  with  nearly  black 
masses  of  short  chaparral.  Through  the  mesquite  flat 
wound  the  ranch  road  that,  five  miles  away,  flowed  into 


The  Higher  Abdication  143 

the  old  government  trail  to  San  Antonio.  The  sun  was 
so  low  that  the  gentlest  elevation  cast  its  grey  shadow 
miles  into  the  green-gold  sea  of  sunshine. 

That  evening  ears  were  quicker  than  eyes. 

The  Mexican  held  up  a  tawny  finger  to  still  the  scrap- 
ing of  tin  against  tin. 

"  One  waggeen,"  said  he,  "  cross  dthe  Arroyo  Hondo. 
Ah  hear  dthe  wheel.  Verree  rockee  place,  dthe  Hondo." 

"  You've  got  good  ears,  Gregorio,"  said  Mustang 
Taylor.  "  I  never  heard  nothin'  but  the  song-bird  in 
the  bush  and  the  zephyr  skallyhootin'  across  the  peace- 
ful dell." 

In  ten  minutes  Taylor  remarked :  "  I  see  the  dust  of 
a  wagon  risin'  right  above  the  fur  end  of  the  flat." 

"  You  have  verree  good  eyes,  sefior,"  said  Gregorio, 
smiling. 

Two  miles  away  they  saw  a  faint  cloud  dimming 
the  green  ripples  of  the  mesquites.  In  twenty  minutes 
they  heard  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs :  in  five  min- 
utes more  the  grey  plugs  dashed  out  of  the  thicket, 
whickering  for  oats  and  drawing  the  light  wagon  behind 
them  like  a  toy. 

From  the  jacals  came  a  cry  of:  "El  Amo!  El 
Amo!  "  Four  Mexican  youths  raced  to  unharness  the 
greys.  The  cowpunchers  gave  a  yell  of  greeting  and 
delight. 

Ranse  Truesdell,  driving,  threw  the  reins  to  the 
ground  and  laughed. 

"  It's  under  the  wagon  sheet,  boys,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  what  you're  waiting  for.  If  Sam  lets  it  run  out 


144  Heart  of  the  West 

again  we'll  use  them  yellow  shoes  of  his  for  a  target. 
There's  two  cases.  Pull  'em  out  and  light  up.  I  know 
you  all  want  a  smoke." 

After  striking  dry  country  Ranse  had  removed  the 
wagon  sheet  from  the  bows  and  thrown  it  over  the  goods 
in  the  wagon.  Six  pair  of  hasty  hands  dragged  it  off 
and  grabbled  beneath  the  sacks  and  blankets  for  the 
cases  of  tobacco. 

Long  Collins,  tobacco  messenger  from  the  San  Gab- 
riel outfit,  who  rode  with  the  longest  stirrups  west  of 
the  Mississippi,  delved  with  an  arm  like  the  tongue  of 
a  wagon.  He  caught  something  harder  than  a  blanket 
and  pulled  out  a  fearful  thing  —  a  shapeless,  muddy 
bunch  of  leather  tied  together  with  wire  and  twine. 
From  its  ragged  end,  like  the  head  and  claws  of  a  dis- 
turbed turtle,  protruded  human  toes. 

"  Who-ee !  "  yelled  Long  Collins.  "  Ranse,  are  you 
a-packin'  around  of  corpuses  ?  Here's  a  —  howlin' 
grasshoppers !  " 

Up  from  his  long  slumber  popped  Curly,  like  some 
vile  worm  from  its  burrow.  He  clawed  his  way  out 
and  sat  blinking  like  a  disreputable,  drunken  owl.  His 
face  was  as  bluish-red  and  puffed  and  seamed  and  cross- 
lined  as  the  cheapest  round  steak  of  the  butcher.  His 
eyes  were  swollen  slits ;  his  nose  a  pickled  beet ;  his  hair 
would  have  made  the  wildest  thatch  of  a  Jack-in-the-box 
look  like  the  satin  poll  of  a  Cleo  de  Merode.  The  rest 
of  him  was  scarecrow  done  to  the  life. 

Ranse  jumped  down  from  his  seat  and  looked  at  hia 
strange  cargo  with  wide-open  eyes. 


The  Higher  Abdication  145 

"  Here,  you  maverick,  what  are  you  doing  in  my 
wagon?  How  did  you  get  in  there?  " 

The  punchers  gathered  around  in  delight.  For  the 
time  they  had  forgotten  tobacco. 

Curly  looked  around  him  slowly  in  every  direction. 
He  snarled  like  a  Scotch  terrier  through  his  ragged 
beard. 

"  Where  is  this  ?  "  he  rasped  through  his  parched 
throat.  "  It's  a  damn  farm  in  an  old  field.  What'd 
you  bring  me  here  for  —  say?  Did  I  say  I  wanted  to 
come  here?  What  are  you  Reubs  rubberin'  at — hey? 
G'wan  or  I'll  punch  some  of  yer  faces." 

"  Drag  him  out,  Collins,"  said  Ranse. 

Curly  took  a  slide  and  felt  the  ground  rise  up  and 
collide  with  his  shoulder  blades.  He  got  up  and  sat 
on  the  steps  of  the  store  shivering  from  outraged  nerves, 
hugging  his  knees  and  sneering.  Taylor  lifted  out  a 
case  of  tobacco  and  wrenched  off  its  top.  Six  cigarettes 
began  to  glow,  bringing  peace  and  forgiveness  to  Sam. 

"  How'd  you  come  in  my  wagon  ?  "  repeated  Ranse, 
this  time  in  a  voice  that  drew  a  reply. 

Curly  recognised  the  tone.  He  had  heard  it  used  by 
freight  brakemen  and  large  persons  in  blue  carrying 
clubs. 

"Me?"  he  growled.  "Oh,  was  you  talkin'  to  me? 
Why,  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Menger,  but  my  valet 
had  forgot  to  pack  my  pajamas.  So  I  crawled  into 
that  wagon  in  the  wagon-yard  —  see?  I  never  told  you 
to  bring  me  out  to  this  bloomin'  farm  —  see  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Mustang  ?  "  asked  Poky  Rodgers,  al- 


146  Heart  of  the  West 

most  forgetting  to  smoke  in  his  ecstasy.  "  What  do  it 
live  on?" 

"  It's  a  galliwampus,  Poky,"  said  Mustang.  "  It's 
the  thing  that  hollers  *  willi-walloo'  up  in  ellum  trees 
in  the  low  grounds  of  nights.  I  don't  know  if  it  bites." 

"  No,  it  ain't,  Mustang,"  volunteered  Long  Collins. 
"  Them  galliwampuses  has  fins  on  their  backs,  and  eight- 
een toes.  This  here  is  a  hicklesnifter.  It  lives  under 
the  ground  and  eats  cherries.  Don't  stand  so  close  to  it. 
It  wipes  out  villages  with  one  stroke  of  its  prehensile 
tail." 

Sam,  the  cosmopolite,  who  called  bartenders  in  San 
Antone  by  their  first  name,  stood  in  the  door.  He  was 
a  better  zoologist. 

"Well,  ain't  that  a  Willie  for  your  whiskers?  "  he 
commented.  "  Where'd  you  dig  up  the  hobo,  Ranse  ? 
Goin'  to  make  an  auditorium  for  inbreviates  out  of  the 
ranch?" 

"  Say,"  said  Curly,  from  whose  panoplied  breast  all 
shafts  of  wit  fell  blunted.  "  Any  of  you  kiddnr  guys 
got  a  drink  on  you?  Have  your  fun.  Say,  I've  been 
hittin'  the  stuff  till  I  don't  know  straight  up." 

Pie  turned  to  Ranse.  "  Say,  you  shanghaied  me  on 
your  d — d  old  prairie  schooner  —  did  I  tell  you  to  drive 
me  to  a  farm?  I  want  a  drink.  I'm  goin'  all  to  little 
pieces.  What's  doin'?  " 

Ranse  saw  that  the  tramp's  nerves  were  racking  him. 
He  despatched  one  of  the  Mexican  boys  to  the  ranch- 
house  for  a  glass  of  whisky.  Curly  gulped  it  down; 
and  into  his  eyes  came  a  brief,  grateful  glow  —  as  hu- 


The  Higher  Abdication  147 

man  as  the  expression  in  the  eye  of  a  faithful  setter 
dog. 

"  Thanky,  boss,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  You're  thirty  miles  from  a  railroad,  and  forty 
miles  from  a  saloon,"  said  Ranse. 

Curly  fell  back  weakly  against  the  steps. 

"  Since  you  are  here,"  continued  the  ranchman, 
"  come  along  with  me.  We  can't  turn  you  out  on  the 
prairie.  A  rabbit  might  tear  you  to  pieces." 

He  conducted  Curly  to  a  large  shed  where  the  ranch 
vehicles  were  kept.  There  he  spread  out  a  canvas  cot 
and  brought  blankets. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  can  sleep,"  said  Ranse,  "  since 
you've  been  pounding  your  ear  for  twenty-four  hours. 
But  you  can  camp  here  till  morning.  I'll  have  Pedro 
fetch  you  up  some  grub." 

"  Sleep !  "  said  Curly.  "  I  can  sleep  a  week.  Say, 
sport,  have  you  got  a  coffin  nail  on  you  ?  " 

Fifty  miles  had  Ransom  Truesdell  driven  that  day. 
And  yet  this  is  what  he  did. 

Old  "  Kiowa  "  Truesdell  sat  in  his  great  wicker  chair 
reading  by  the  light  of  an  immense  oil  lamp.  Ranse 
laid  a  bundle  of  newspapers  fresh  from  town  at  his  el- 
bow. 

"Back,  Ranse?"  said  the  old  man,  looking  up. 

"  Son,"  old  "  Kiowa  "  continued,  "  I've  been  thinking 
all  day  about  a  certain  matter  that  we  have  talked  about. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  again.  I've  lived  for  you.  I've 
fought  wolves  and  Indians  and  worse  white  men  to  pro- 


148  Heart  of  the  West 

tect  you.  You  never  had  any  mother  that  you  can  re- 
member. I've  taught  you  to  shoot  straight,  ride  hard, 
and  live  clean.  Later  on  I've  worked  to  pile  up  dollars 
that'll  be  yours.  You'll  be  a  rich  man,  Ranse,  when  my 
chunk  goes  out.  I've  made  you.  I've  licked  you  into 
shape  like  a  leopard  cat  licks  its  cubs.  You  don't  be- 
long to  yourself  —  you've  got  to  be  a  Truesdell  first. 
Now,  is  there  to  be  any  more  nonsense  about  this  Curtis 
girl?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  once  more,"  said  Ranse,  slowly.  "  As 
I  am  a  Truesdell  and  as  you  are  my  father,  I'll  never 
marry  a  Curtis." 

"  Good  boy,"  said  old  "  Kiowa."  "  You'd  better  go 
get  s  >me  supper." 

Ranse  went  to  the  kitchen  at  the  rear  of  the  house. 
Pedro,  the  Mexican  cook,  sprang  up  to  bring  the  food 
he  was  keeping  warm  in  the  stove. 

"  Just  a  cup  of  coffee,  Pedro,"  he  said,  and  drank 
it  standing.  And  then: 

"  There's  a  tramp  on  a  cot  in  the  wagon-shed.  Take 
him  something  to  eat.  Better  make  it  enough  for  two." 

Ranse  walked  out  toward  the  jacals.  A  boy  came 
running. 

"  Manuel,  can  you  catch  Vaminos,  in  the  little  pas- 
ture, for  me?  " 

"Why  not,  senor?  I  saw  him  near  the  puerta  but 
two  hours  past.  He  bears  a  drag-rope." 

"  Get  him  and  saddle  him  as  quick  as  you  can." 

"  Prontito,  senor." 

Soon,  mounted  on  Vaminos,  Ranse  leaned  in  the  sad- 


The  Higher  Abdication  149 

die,  pressed  with  his  knees,  and  galloped  eastward  past 
the  store,  where  sat  Sam  trying  his  guitar  in  the  moon- 
light. 

Vaminos  shall  have  a  word  —  Vaminos  the  good  dun 
horse.  The  Mexicans,  who  have  a  hundred  names  for 
the  colours  of  a  horse,  called  him  gruyo.  He  was  a 
mouse-coloured,  slate-coloured,  flea-bitten  roan-dun,  if 
you  can  conceive  it.  Down  his  back  from  his  mane  to 
his  tail  went  a  line  of  black.  He  would  live  forever; 
and  surveyors  have  not  laid  off  as  many  miles  in  the 
world  as  he  could  travel  in  a  day. 

Eight  miles  east  of  the  Cibolo  ranch-house  Ranse 
loosened  the  pressure  of  his  knees,  and  Vaminos  stopped 
under  a  big  ratama  tree.  The  yellow  ratama  blossoms 
showered  fragrance  that  would  have  undone  the  roses 
of  France.  The  moon  made  the  earth  a  great  concave 
bowl  with  a  crystal  sky  for  a  lid.  In  a  glade  five  jack- 
rabbits  leaped  and  played  together  like  kittens.  Eight 
miles  farther  east  shone  a  faint  star  that  appeared  to 
have  dropped  below  the  horizon.  Night  riders,  who  of- 
ten steered  their  course  by  it,  knew  it  to  be  the  light  in 
the  Rancho  de  los  Olmos. 

In  ten  minutes  Yenna  Curtis  galloped  to  the  tree 
on  her  sorrel  pony  Dancer.  The  two  leaned  and  clasped 
hands  heartily. 

"  I  ought  to  have  ridden  nearer  your  home,"  said 
Ranse.  "  But  you  never  will  let  me." 

Yenna  laughed.  And  in  the  soft  light  you  could  see 
her  strong  white  teeth  and  fearless  eyes.  No  sentimen- 
tality there,  in  spite  of  the  moonlight,  the  odour  of  the 


150  Heart  of  the  West 

ratamas,  and  the  admirable  figure  of  Ranse  Truesdell, 
the  lover.  But  she  was  there,  eight  miles  from  her  home, 
to  meet  him. 

"  How  often  have  I  told  you,  Ranse,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  am  your  half-way  girl?  Always  half-way." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Ranse,  with  a  question  in  his  tones. 

"  I  did,"  said  Yenna,  with  almost  a  sigh.  "  I  told 
him  after  dinner  when  I  thought  he  would  be  in  a  good 
humour.  Did  you  ever  wake  up  a  lion,  Ranse,  with  the 
mistaken  idea  that  he  would  be  a  kitten  ?  He  almost  tore 
the  ranch  to  pieces.  It's  all  up.  I  love  my  daddy, 
Ranse,  and  I'm  afraid  —  I'm  afraid  of  him,  too.  He 
ordered  me  to  promise  that  I'd  never  marry  a  Truesdell. 
I  promised.  That's  all.  What  luck  did  you  have  ?  " 

"  The  same,"  said  Ranse,  slowly.  "  I  promised  him 
that  his  son  would  never  marry  a  Curtis.  Somehow 
I  couldn't  go  against  him.  He's  mighty  old.  I'm  sorry, 
Yenna." 

The  girl  leaned  in  her  saddle  and  laid  one  hand  on 
Ranse's,  on  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

"  I  never  thought  I'd  like  you  better  for  giving  me 
up,"  she  said  ardently,  "  but  I  do.  I  must  ride  back 
now,  Ranse.  I  slipped  out  of  the  house  and  saddled 
Dancer  myself.  Good-night,  neighbour." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Ranse.  "  Ride  carefully  over 
them  badger  holes." 

They  wheeled  and  rode  away  in  opposite  directions. 
Yenna  turned  in  her  saddle  and  called  clearly: 

"  Don't  forget  I'm  your  half-way  girl,  Ranse." 

"  Damn  all  family  feuds  and  inherited  scraps,"  mut- 


The  Higher  Abdication  151 

tered  Ranse  vindictively  to  the  breeze  as  he  rode  back 
to  the  Cibolo. 

Ranse  turned  his  horse  into  the  small  pasture  and 
went  to  his  own  room.  He  opened  the  lowest  drawer 
of  an  old  bureau  to  get  out  the  packet  of  letters  that 
Yenna  had  written  him  one  summer  when  she  had  gone 
to  Mississippi  for  a  visit.  The  drawer  stuck,  and  he 
yanked  at  it  savagely  —  as  a  man  will.  It  came  out  of 
the  bureau,  and  bruised  both  his  shins  —  as  a  drawer 
will.  An  old,  folded  yellow  letter  without  an  envelope 
fell  from  somewhere  —  probably  from  where  it  had 
lodged  in  one  of  the  upper  drawers.  Ranse  took  it  to 
the  lamp  and  read  it  curiously. 

Then  he  took  his  hat  and  walked  to  one  of  the  Mexi- 
can jacals. 

"  Tia  Juana,"  he  said,  "  I  would  like  to  talk  with  you 
a  while." 

An  old,  old  Mexican  woman,  white-haired  and  won- 
derfully wrinkled,  rose  from  a  stool. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Ranse,  removing  his  hat  and  tak- 
ing the  one  chair  in  the  jacaL  "  Who  am  I,  Tia 
Juana?  "  he  asked,  speaking  Spanish. 

"  Don  Ransom,  our  good  friend  and  employer.  Why 
do  you  ask?"  answered  the  old  woman  wonderingly. 

"  Tia  Juana,  who  am  I?  "  he  repeated,  with  his  stern 
eyes  looking  into  hers. 

A  frightened  look  came  in  the  old  woman's  face.  She 
tumbled  with  her  black  shawl. 

"Who  am  I,  Tia  Juana?  "  said  Ranse  once  more. 

"  Thirty-two  years  I  have  lived  on  the  Rancho  Ci- 


152  Heart  of  the  West 

bolo,"  said  Tia  Juana.  "  I  thought  to  be  buried  un- 
der the  coma  mott  beyond  the  garden  before  these  things 
should  be  known.  Close  the  door,  Don  Ransom,  and  I 
will  speak.  I  see  in  your  face  that  you  know." 

An  hour  Ranse  spent  behind  Tia  Juana's  closed  door. 
As  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  house  Curly  called  to 
him  from  the  wagon-shed. 

The  tramp  sat  on  his  cot,  swinging  his  feet  and  smok- 
ing. 

"  Say,  sport,"  he  grumbled.  "  This  is  no  way  to  treat 
a  man  after  kidnappin'  him.  I  went  up  to  the  store 
and  borrowed  a  razor  from  that  fresh  guy  and  had  a 
shave.  But  that  ain't  all  a  man  needs.  Say  —  can't  you 
loosen  up  for  about  three  fingers  more  of  that  booze? 
I  never  asked  you  to  bring  me  to  your  d — d  farm." 

"  Stand  up  out  here  in  the  light,"  said  Ranse,  look- 
ing at  him  closely. 

Curly  got  up  sullenly  and  took  a  step  or  two. 

His  face,  now  shaven  smooth,  seemed  transformed. 
His  hair  had  been  combed,  and  it  fell  back  from  the 
right  side  of  his  forehead  with  a  peculiar  wave.  The 
moonlight  charitably  softened  the  ravages  of  drink ;  and 
his  aquiline,  well-shaped  nose  and  small,  square  cleft 
chin  almost  gave  distinction  to  his  looks. 

Ranse  sat  on  the  foot  of  the  cot  and  looked  at  him 
curiously. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  —  have  you  got  any 
home  or  folks  anywhere  ?  " 

"Me?  Why,  I'm  a  dook,"  said  Curly.  "I'm  Sir 
Reginald  —  oh,  cheese  it.  No;  I  don't  know  anything 


The  Higher  Abdication  153 

about  my  ancestors.  I've  been  a  tramp  ever  since  I 
can  remember.  Say,  old  pal,  are  you  going  to  set  'em 
up  again  to-night  or  not?  " 

"  You  answer  my  questions  and  maybe  I  will.  How 
did  you  come  to  be  a  tramp  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  "  answered  Curly.  "  Why,  I  adopted  that  pro- 
fession when  I  was  an  infant.  Case  of  had  to.  First 
thing  I  can  remember,  I  belonged  to  a  big,  lazy  hobo 
called  Beefsteak  Charley.  He  sent  me  around  to  houses 
to  beg.  I  wasn't  hardly  big  enough  to  reach  the  latch 
of  a  gate." 

"Did  he  ever  tell  you  how  he  got  you?"  asked 
Ranse. 

"  Once  when  he  was  sober  he  said  he  bought  me  for 
an  old  six-shooter  and  six  bits  from  a  band  of  drunken 
Mexican  sheep-shearers.  But  what's  the  diff?  That's 
all  I  know." 

"  All  right,"  said  Ranse.  "  I  reckon  you're  a  maver- 
ick for  certain.  I'm  going  to  put  the  Rancho  Cibolo 
brand  on  you.  I'll  start  you  to  work  in  one  of  the  camps 
to-morrow." 

"Work!"  sniffed  Curly,  disdainfully.  "What  da 
you  take  me  for?  Do  you  think  I'd  chase  cows,  and 
hop-skip-and-jump  around  after  crazy  sheep  like  that 
pink  and  yellow  guy  at  the  store  says  these  Reubs 
do?  Forget  it." 

"  Oh,  you'll  like  it  when  you  get  used  to  it,"  said 
ilanse.  "  Yes,  I'll  send  you  up  one  more  drink  b} 
Pedro.  I  think  you'll  make  a  first-class  cowpuncher  be- 
fore I  get  through  with  you.'" 


154  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Me  ?  "  said  Curly.  u  I  pity  the  cows  you  set  me 
to  chaperon.  They  can  go  chase  themselves.  Don't 
forget  my  nightcap,  please,  boss." 

Ranse  paid  a  visit  to  the  store  before  going  to  the 
house.  Sam  Revell  was  taking  off  his  tan  shoes  regret- 
fully and  preparing  for  bed. 

"  Any  of  the  boys  from  the  San  Gabriel  camp  riding 
in  early  in  the  morning?  "  asked  Ranse. 

"  Long  Collins,"  said  Sam  briefly.     "  For  the  mail." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Ranse,  "to  take  that  tramp  out 
to  camp  with  him  and  keep  him  till  I  get  there." 

Curly  was  sitting  on  his  blankets  in  the  San  Gabriel 
camp  cursing  talentedly  when  Ranse  Truesdell  rode  up 
and  dismounted  on  the  next  afternoon.  The  cow- 
punchers  were  ignoring  the  stray.  He  was  grimy  with 
dust  and  black  dirt.  His  clothes  were  making  their  last 
stand  in  favour  of  the  conventions. 

Ranse  went  up  to  Buck  Rabb,  the  camp  boss,  and 
spoke  briefly. 

"  He's  a  plumb  buzzard,"  said  Buck.  "  He  won't 
work,  and  he's  the  low-downest  passel  of  inhumanity  I 
ever  see.  I  didn't  know  what  you  wanted  done  with 
him,  Ranse,  so  I  just  let  him  set.  That  seems  to  suit 
him.  He's  been  condemned  to  death  by  the  boys  a  dozen 
times,  but  I  told  'em  maybe  you  was  savin'  him  for  tor- 
ture." 

Ranse  took  off  his  coat. 

"  I've  got  a  hard  job  before  me,  Buck,  I  reckon,  but 
it  has  to  be  done.  I've  got  to  make  a  man  out  of  that 
thing.  That's  what  I've  come  to  camp  for." 


The  Higher  Abdication  155 

He  went  up  to  Curly. 

"  Brother,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  think  if  you  had  a 
bath  it  would  allow  you  to  take  a  seat  in  the  company 
of  your  fellow-man  with  less  injustice  to  the  atmos- 
phere." 

"  Run  away,  farmer,"  said  Curly,  sardonically. 
"  Willie  will  send  for  nursey  when  he  feels  like  hav- 
ing his  tub." 

The  charco,  or  water  hole,  was  twelve  yards  away. 
Ranse  took  one  of  Curly's  ankles  and  dragged  him  like 
a  sack  of  potatoes  to  the  brink.  Then  with  the  strength 
and  sleight  of  a  hammer-thrower  he  hurled  the  offending 
member  of  society  far  into  the  lake. 

Curly  crawled  out  and  up  the  bank  spluttering  like  a 
porpoise. 

Ranse  met  him  with  a  piece  of  soap  and  a  coarse 
towel  in  his  hands. 

"  Go  to  the  other  end  of  the  lake  and  use  this,"  he 
said.  "  Buck  will  give  you  some  dry  clothes  at  the 
wagon." 

The  tramp  obeyed  without  protest.  By  the  time  sup- 
per was  ready  he  had  returned  to  camp.  He  was  hardly 
to  be  recognised  in  his  new  blue  shirt  and  brown  duck 
clothes.  Ranse  observed  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

"  Lordy,  I  hope  he  ain't  a  coward,"  he  was  saying  to 
himself.  "  I  hope  he  won't  turn  out  to  be  a  coward." 

His  doubts  were  soon  allayed.  Curly  walked  straight 
to  where  he  stood.  His  light-blue  eyes  were  blazing. 

"  Now  I'm  clean,"  he  said  meaningly,  "  maybe  you'll 


156  Heart  of  the  West 

talk  to  me.  Think  you've  got  a  picnic  here,  do  you? 
You  clodhoppers  think  you  can  run  over  a  man  be- 
cause you  know  he  can't  get  away.  All  right.  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Curly  planted  a  stinging  slap  against  Ranse's  left 
cheek.  The  print  of  his  hand  stood  out  a  dull  red  against 
the  tan. 

Ranse  smiled  happily. 

The  cowpunchers  talk  to  this  day  of  the  battle  that 
followed. 

Somewhere  in  his  restless  tour  of  the  cities  Curly  had 
acquired  the  art  of  self-defence.  The  ranchman  was 
equipped  only  with  the  splendid  strength  and  equilib- 
rium of  perfect  health  and  the  endurance  conferred  by 
decent  living.  The  two  attributes  nearly  matched. 
There  were  no  formal  rounds.  At  last  the  fibre  of  the 
clean  liver  prevailed.  The  last  time  Curly  went  down 
from  one  of  the  ranchman's  awkward  but  powerful 
blows  he  remained  on  the  grass,  but  looking  up  with  an 
unquenched  eye. 

Ranse  went  to  the  water  barrel  and  washed  the  red 
from  a  cut  on  his  chin  in  the  stream  from  the  faucet. 

On  his  face  was  a  grin  of  satisfaction. 

Much  benefit  might  accrue  to  educators  and  moralists 
if  they  could  know  the  details  of  the  curriculum  of  rec- 
lamation through  which  Ranse  put  his  waif  during  the 
month  that  he  spent  in  the  San  Gabriel  camp.  The 
ranchman  had  no  fine  theories  to  work  out  —  perhaps 
his  whole  stock  of  pedagogy  embraced  only  a  knowledge 
of  horse-breaking  and  a  belief  in  heredity. 


The  Higher  Abdication  157 

The  cowpunchers  saw  that  their  boss  was  trying  to 
make  a  man  out  of  the  strange  animal  that  he  had  sent 
among  them ;  and  they  tacitly  organised  themselves  into 
a  faculty  of  assistants.  But  their  system  was  their 
own. 

Curly's  first  lesson  stuck.  He  became  on  friendly  and 
then  on  intimate  terms  with  soap  and  water.  And  the 
thing  that  pleased  Ranse  most  was  that  his  "  subject  " 
held  his  ground  at  each  successive  higher  step.  But  the 
steps  were  sometimes  far  apart. 

Once  he  got  at  the  quart  bottle  of  whisky  kept  sacredly 
in  the  grub  tent  for  rattlesnake  bites,  and  spent  sixteen 
hours  on  the  grass,  magnificently  drunk.  But  when  he 
staggered  to  his  feet  his  first  move  was  to  find  his  soap 
and  towel  and  start  for  the  charco.  And  once,  when  a 
treat  came  from  the  ranch  in  the  form  of  a  basket  of 
fresh  tomatoes  and  young  onions,  Curly  devoured  the 
entire  consignment  before  the  punchers  reached  the 
camp  at  supper  time. 

And  then  the  punchers  punished  him  in  their  own  way. 
For  three  days  they  did  not  speak  to  him,  except  to 
reply  to  his  own  questions  or  remarks.  And  they  spoke 
with  absolute  and  unfailing  politeness.  They  played 
tricks  on  one  another;  they  pounded  one  another  hurt- 
fully  and  affectionately ;  they  heaped  upon  one  another's 
heads  friendly  curses  and  obloquy ;  but  they  were  polite 
to  Curly.  He  saw  it,  and  it  stung  him  as  much  as  Ranse 
hoped  it  would. 

Then  came  a  night  that  brought  a  cold,  wet  norther. 
Wilson,  the  youngest  of  the  outfit,  had  lain  in  camp  two 


158  Heart  of  the  West 

days,  ill  with  a  fever.  When  Joe  got  up  at  daylight  to 
begin  breakfast  he  found  Curly  sitting  asleep  against 
a  wheel  of  the  grub  wagon  with  only  a  saddle  blanket 
around  him,  while  Curly's  blankets  were  stretched  over 
Wilson  to  protect  him  from  the  rain  and  wind. 

Three  nights  after  that  Curly  rolled  himself  in  his 
blanket  and  went  to  sleep.  Then  the  other  punchers 
rose  up  softly  and  began  to  make  preparations.  Ranse 
saw  Long  Collins  tie  a  rope  to  the  horn  of  a  saddle. 
Others  were  getting  out  their  six-shooters. 

"  Boys,"  said  Ranse,  "  I'm  much  obliged.  I  was  hop- 
ing you  would.  But  I  didn't  like  to  ask." 

Half  a  dozen  six-shooters  began  to  pop  —  awful  yells 
rent  the  air  —  Long  Collins  galloped  wildly  across 
Curly's  bed,  dragging  the  saddle  after  him.  That  was 
merely  their  way  of  gently  awaking  their  victim.  Then 
they  hazed  him  for  an  hour,  carefully  and  ridiculously, 
after  the  code  of  cow  camps.  Whenever  he  uttered  pro- 
test they  held  him  stretched  over  a  roll  of  blankets 
and  thrashed  him  woefully  with  a  pair  of  leather  leg- 
gings. 

And  all  this  meant  that  Curly  had  won  his  spurs,  that 
he  was  receiving  the  puncher's  accolade.  Nevermore 
would  they  be  polite  to  him.  But  he  would  be  their 
"  pardner  "  and  stirrup-brother,  foot  to  foot. 

When  the  fooling  was  ended  all  hands  made  a  raid  on 
Joe's  big  coffee-pot  by  the  fire  for  a  Java  nightcap. 
Ranse  watched  the  new  knight  carefully  to  see  if  he 
understood  and  was  worthy.  Curly  limped  with  his  cup 
of  coffee  to  a  log  and  sat  upon  it.  Long  Collins  fol- 


The  Higher  Abdication  159 

lowed  and  sat  by  his  side.  Buck  Rabb  went  and  sat  at 
the  other.  Curly  —  grinned. 

And  then  Ranse  furnished  Curly  with  mounts  and 
saddle  and  equipment,  and  turned  him  over  to  Buck 
Rabb,  instructing  him  to  finish  the  job. 

Three  weeks  later  Ranse  rode  from  the  ranch  into 
Rabb's  camp,  which  was  then  in  Snake  Valley.  The 
boys  were  saddling  for  the  day's  ride.  He  sought  out 
Long  Collins  among  them. 

"  How  about  that  bronco?  "  he  asked. 

Long  Collins  grinned. 

"  Reach  out  your  hand,  Ranse  Truesdell,"  he  said, 
"  and  you'll  touch  him.  And  you  can  shake  his'n,  too, 
if  you  like,  for  he's  plumb  white  and  there's  none  better 
in  no  camp." 

Ranse  looked  again  at  the  clear-faced,  bronzed,  smil- 
ing cowpuncher  who  stood  at  Collins's  side.  Could 
that  be  Curly  ?  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Curly  grasped 
it  with  the  muscles  of  a  bronco-buster. 

"  I  want  you  at  the  ranch,"  said  Ranse. 

"All  right,  sport,"  said  Curly,  heartily.  "But  I 
want  to  come  back  again.  Say,  pal,  this  is  a  dandy 
farm.  And  I  don't  want  any  better  fun  than  hustlin' 
cows  with  this  bunch  of  guys.  They're  all  to  the  merry- 
merry." 

At  the  Cibolo  ranch-house  they  dismounted.  Ranse 
bade  Curly  wait  at  the  door  of  the  living  room.  He 
walked  inside.  Old  "  Kiowa  "  Truesdell  was  reading  at 
a  table. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Truesdell,"  said  Ranse. 


160  Heart  of  the  West 

The  old  man  turned  his  white  head  quickly. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  he  began.  "  Why  do  you  call  me 
<  Mr.  — '  ?  " 

When  he  looked  at  Ranse's  face  he  stopped,  and  the 
hand  that  held  his  newspaper  shook  slightly. 

"Boy,"  he  said  slowly,  "how  did  you  find  it  out?" 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Ranse,  with  a  smile.  "  I  made 
Tia  Juana  tell  me.  It  was  kind  of  by  accident,  but  it's 
all  right." 

"  You've  been  like  a  son  to  me,"  said  old  "  Kiowa," 
trembling. 

"  Tia  Juana  told  me  all  about  it,"  said  Ranse.  "  She 
told  me  how  you  adopted  me  when  I  was  knee-high  to 
a  puddle  duck  out  of  a  wagon  train  of  prospectors 
that  was  bound  West.  And  she  told  me  how  the  kid 
—  your  own  kid,  you  know  —  got  lost  or  was  run  away 
with.  And  she  said  it  was  the  same  day  that  the  sheep- 
shearers  got  on  a  bender  and  left  the  ranch." 

"  Our  boy  strayed  from  the  house  when  he  was  two 
years  old,"  said  the  old  man.  "  And  then  along  came 
these  emigrant  wagons  with  a  youngster  they  didn't 
want ;  and  we  took  you.  I  never  intended  you  to  know, 
Ranse.  We  never  heard  of  our  boy  again." 

"  He's  right  outside,  unless  I'm  mighty  mistaken,*" 
said  Ranse,  opening  the  door  and  beckoning. 

Curly  walked  in. 

No  one  could  have  doubted.     The  old  man  and  the 
young  had  the  same  sweep  of  hair,  the  same  nose, 
line   of   face,   and  prominent  light-blue   eyes. 

Old  "  Kiowa  "  rose  eagerly. 


The  Higher  Abdication  161 

Curly  looked  about  the  room  curiously.  A  puzzled 
expression  came  over  his  face.  He  pointed  to  the  wall 
opposite. 

"  Where's  the  tick-tock  ?  "  he  asked,  absent-mindedly. 

"The  clock,"  cried  old  "  Kiowa "  loudly.  "The 
eight-day  clock  used  to  stand  there.  Why  — " 

He  turned  to  Ranse,  but  Ranse  was  not  there. 

Already  a  hundred  yards  away,  Vaminos,  the  good 
flea-bitten  dun,  was  bearing  him  eastward  like  a  racer 
through  dust  and  chaparral  towards  the  Rancho  de  los 
Olmos. 


X 

CUPID  X  LA  CARTE 

1  HE  dispositions  of  woman,"  said  Jeff  Peters,  aftei 
various  opinions  on  the  subject  had  been  advanced, 
"  run,  regular,  to  diversions.  What  a  woman  wants  is 
what  you're  out  of.  She  wants  more  of  a  thing  when 
it's  scarce.  She  likes  to  have  souvenirs  of  things  that 
never  happened.  She  likes  to  be  reminded  of  things 
she  never  heard  of.  A  one-sided  view  of  objects  is  dis- 
jointing to  the  female  composition. 

"  'Tis  a  misfortune  of  mine,  begotten  by  nature  and 
travel,"  continued  Jeff,  looking  thoughtfully  between 
his  elevated  feet  at  the  grocery  stove,  "  to  look  deeper 
into  some  subjects  than  most  people  do.  I've  breathed 
gasoline  smoke  talking  to  street  crowds  in  nearly  every 
town  in  the  United  States.  I've  held  'em  spellbound 
with  music,  oratory,  sleight  of  hand,  and  prevarications, 
while  I've  sold  'em  jewelry,  medicine,  soap,  hair  tonic, 
and  junk  of  other  nominations.  And  during  my  travels, 
as  a  matter  of  recreation  and  expiation,  I've  taken 
cognisance  some  of  women.  It  takes  a  man  a  lifetime 
to  find  out  about  one  particular  woman ;  but  if  he  puts 
in,  say,  ten  years,  industrious  and  curious,  he  can  ac- 
quire the  general  rudiments  of  the  sex.  One  lesson  I 

picked  up  was  when  I  was  working  the  West  with  a 

162 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  163 

line  of  Brazilian  diamonds  and  a  patent  fire  kindler  just 
after  my  trip  from  Savannah  down  through  the  cotton 
belt  with  Dalby's  Anti-explosive  Lamp  Oil  Powder. 
'Twas  when  the  Oklahoma  country  was  in  first  bloom. 
Guthrie  was  rising  in  the  middle  of  it  like  a  lump  of 
self-raising  dough.  It  was  a  boom  town  of  the  regular 
kind  —  you  stood  in  line  to  get  a  chance  to  wash  your 
face;  if  you  ate  over  ten  minutes  you  had  a  lodging 
bill  added  on ;  if  you  slept  on  a  plank  at  night  they 
charged  it  to  you  as  board  the  next  morning. 

"  By  nature  and  doctrines  I  am  addicted  to  the  habit 
of  discovering  choice  places  wherein  to  feed.  So  I 
looked  around  and  found  a  proposition  that  exactly 
cut  the  mustard.  I  found  a  restaurant  tent  just  opened 
up  by  an  outfit  that  had  drifted  in  on  the  tail  of  the 
boom.  They  had  knocked  together  a  box  house,  where 
they  lived  and  did  the  cooking,  and  served  the  meals  in 
a  tent  pitched  against  the  side.  That  tent  was  joyful 
with  placards  on  it  calculated  to  redeem  the  world- 
worn  pilgrim  from  the  sinfulness  of  boarding  houses 
and  pick-me-up  hotels.  '  Try  Mother's  Home-Made 
Biscuits,*  fi  What's  the  Matter  with  Our  Apple  Dump- 
lings and  Hard  Sauce  ?  '  *  Hot  Cakes  and  Maple  Syrup 
Like  You  Ate  When  a  Boy,'  *  Our  Fried  Chicken  Never 
Was  Heard  to  Crow  ' —  there  was  literature  doomed  to 
please  the  digestions  of  man!  I  said  to  myself  that 
mother's  wandering  boy  should  munch  there  that  night. 
And  so  it  came  to  pass.  And  there  is  where  I  con- 
tracted my  case  of  Mame  Dugan. 

"  Old  Man  Dugan  was  six  feet  by  one  of  Indiana 


164  Heart  of  the  West 

loafer,  and  he  spent  his  time  sitting  on  his  shoulder 
blades  in  a  rocking-chair  in  the  shanty  memorialising 
the  great  corn-crop  failure  of  '86.  Ma  Dugan  did  the 
cooking,  and  Mame  waited  on  the  table. 

"  As  soon  as  I  saw  Mame  I  knew  there  was  a  mistake 
in  the  census  reports.  There  wasn't  but  one  girl  in  the 
United  States.  When  you  come  to  specifications  it  isn't 
easy.  She  was  about  the  size  of  an  angel,  and  she  had 
eyes,  and  ways  about  her.  When  you  come  to  the 
kind  of  a  girl  she  was,  you'll  find  a  belt  of  'em  reaching 
from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  west  as  far  as  the  courthouse 
in  Council  Bluffs,  la.  They  earn  their  own  living  in 
stores,  restaurants,  factories,  and  offices.  They're  de- 
scended straight  from  Eve,  and  they're  the  crowd  that's 
got  woman's  rights,  and  if  a  man  wants  to  dispute  it 
he's  in  line  to  get  one  of  them  against  his  jaw.  They're 
chummy  and  honest  and  free  and  tender  and  sassy,  and 
they  look  life  straight  in  the  eye.  They've  met  man 
face  to  face,  and  discovered  that  he's  a  poor  creature. 
They've  dropped  to  it  that  the  reports  in  the  Seaside 
Library  about  his  being  a  fairy  prince  lack  confirmation. 

"  Mame  was  that  sort.  She  was  full  of  life  and  fun, 
and  breezy ;  she  passed  the  repartee  with  the  boarders 
quick  as  a  wink;  you'd  have  smothered  laughing.  I 
am  disinclined  to  make  excavations  into  the  insides  of 
a  personal  affection.  I  am  glued  to  the  theory  that 
the  diversions  and  discrepancies  of  the  indisposition 
known  as  love  should  be  as  private  a  sentiment  as  a 
toothbrush.  'Tis  my  opinion  that  the  biographies  of  the 
heart  should  be  confined  with  the  historical  romances  of 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  165 

the  liver  to  the  advertising  pages  of  the  magazines.  So, 
you'll  excuse  the  lack  of  an  itemised  bill  of  my  feelings 
toward  Mame. 

"  Pretty  soon  I  got  a  regular  habit  of  dropping  into 
the  tent  to  eat  at  irregular  times  when  there  wasn't  so 
many  around.  Mame  would  sail  in  with  a  smile,  in  a 
black  dress  and  white  apron,  and  say :  '  Hello,  Jeff  — 
why  don't  you  come  at  mealtime?  Want  to  see  how 
much  trouble  you  can  be,  of  course.  Friedchicken- 
beef  steakporkchopshamandeggspotpie  ' —  and  so  on. 
She  called  me  Jeff,  but  there  was  no  significations  at- 
tached. Designations  was  all  she  meant.  The  front 
names  of  any  of  us  she  used  as  they  came  to  hand.  I'd 
eat  about  two  meals  before  I  left,  and  string  'em  out 
like  a  society  spread  where  they  changed  plates  and 
wives,  and  josh  one  another  festively  between  bites. 
Mame  stood  for  it,  pleasant,  for  it  wasn't  up  to  her  to 
take  any  canvas  off  the  tent  by  declining  dollars  just 
because  they  were  chipped  in  after  meal  times. 

"  It  wasn't  long  until  there  was  another  fellow  named 
Ed  Collier  got  the  between-meals  affliction,  and  him  and 
me  put  in  bridges  between  breakfast  and  dinner,  and 
dinner  and  supper,  that  made  a  three-ringed  circus  of 
that  tent,  and  Mame's  turn  as  waiter  a  continuous 
performance.  That  Collier  man  was  saturated  with 
designs  and  contrivings.  He  was  in  well-boring  or 
insurance  or  claim- jumping,  or  something  —  I've  for- 
gotten which.  He  was  a  man  well  lubricated  with 
gentility,  and  his  words  were  such  as  recommended  you 
to  his  point  of  view.  So,  Collier  and  me  infested  the 


166  Heart  of  the  West 

grub  tent  with  care  and  activity.  Mame  was  level  full 
of  impartiality.  'Twas  like  a  casino  hand  the  way  she 
dealt  out  her  favours  —  one  to  Collier  and  one  to  me 
and  one  to  the  board,  and  not  a  card  up  her  sleeve. 

"  Me  and  Collier  naturally  got  acquainted,  and  grav- 
itated together  some  on  the  outside.  Divested  of  his 
stratagems,  he  seemed  to  be  a  pleasant  chap,  full  of 
an  amiable  sort  of  hostility. 

" '  I  notice  you  have  an  affinity  for  grubbing  in  the 
banquet  hall  after  the  guests  have  fled,'  says  I  to  him 
one  day,  to  draw  his  conclusions. 

"  *  Well,  yes,'  says  Collier,  reflecting ;  '  the  tumult  of 
a  crowded  board  seems  to  harass  my  sensitive  nerves.' 

"  '  It  exasperates  mine  some,  too,'  says  I.  6  Nice  little 
girl,  don't  you  think?  ' 

" '  I  see,'  says  Collier,  laughing.  *  Well,  now  that 
you  mention  it,  I  have  noticed  that  she  doesn't  seem  to 
displease  the  optic  nerve.' 

"  '  She's  a  joy  to  mine,'  says  I,  '  and  I'm  going  after 
her.  Notice  is  hereby  served.' 

"  '  I'll  be  as  candid  as  you,'  admits  Collier,  '  and  if 
the  drug  stores  don't  run  out  of  pepsin  I'll  give  you  a 
run  for  your  money  that'll  leave  you  a  dyspeptic  at  the 
wind-up.' 

"  So  Collier  and  me  begins  the  race ;  the  grub  de- 
partment lays  in  new  supplies;  Mame  waits  on  us,  jolly 
and  kind  and  agreeable,  and  it  looks  like  an  even  break, 
Tvith  Cupid  and  the  cook  working  overtime  in  Dugan's 
restaurant. 

"  'Twas  one  night  in  September  when  I  got  Mame  to 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  167 

take  a  walk  after  supper  when  the  things  were  all  cleared 
away.  We  strolled  out  a  distance  and  sat  on  a  pile  of 
lumber  at  the  edge  of  town.  Such  opportunities  was 
seldom,  so  I  spoke  my  piece,  explaining  how  the  Bra- 
zilian diamonds  and  the  fire  kindler  were  laying  up  suf- 
ficient treasure  to  guarantee  the  happiness  of  two,  and 
that  both  of  'em  together  couldn't  equal  the  light  from 
somebody's  eyes,  and  that  the  name  of  Dugan  should 
be  changed  to  Peters,  or  reasons  why  not  would  be  in 
order. 

"  Mame  didn't  say  anything  right  away.  Directly] 
she  gave  a  kind  of  shudder,  and  I  began  to  learn  some- 
thing. 

"  '  Jeff,'  she  says,  6  I'm  sorry  you  spoke.  I  like  you 
as  well  as  any  of  them,  but  there  isn't  the  man  in  the 
world  I'd  ever  marry,  and  there  never  will  be.  Do  }rou 
know  what  a  man  is  in  my  eye?  He's  a  tomb.  He's  a 
sarcophagus  for  the  interment  of  Beefsteakporkchops- 
liver'nbaconhamandeggs.  He's  that  and  nothing  more. 
For  two  years  I've  watched  men  eat,  eat,  eat,  until  they; 
represent  nothing  on  earth  to  me  but  ruminant  bipeds. 
They're  absolutely  nothing  but  something  that  goes  in 
front  of  a  knife  and  fork  and  plate  at  the  table. 
They're  fixed  that  way  in  my  mind  and  memory.  I've 
tried  to  overcome  it,  but  I  can't.  I've  heard  girls  rave 
about  their  sweethearts,  but  I  never  could  understand  it. 
A  man  and  a  sausage  grinder  and  a  pantry  awake  in 
me  exactly  the  same  sentiments.  I  went  to  a  matinee 
once  to  see  an  actor  the  girls  were  crazy  about.  I  got 
interested  enough  to  wonder  whether  he  liked  his  steak 


168  Heart  of  the  West 

rare,  medium,  or  well  done,  and  his  eggs  over  or  straight 
up.  That  was  all.  No,  Jeff;  I'll  marry  no  man  and 
see  him  sit  at  the  breakfast  table  and  eat,  and  come 
back  to  dinner  and  eat,  and  happen  in  again  at  supper 
to  eat,  eat,  eat.' 

"  '  But,  Mame,'  says  I,  '  it'll  wear  off.  You've  had 
too  much  of  it.  You'll  marry  some  time,  of  course. 
Men  don't  eat  always.' 

"  '  As  far  as  my  observation  goes,  they  do.  No,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.'  Mame  turns,  sudden, 
to  animation  and  bright  eyes.  '  There's  a  girl  named 
Susie  Foster  in  Terre  Haute,  a  chum  of  mine.  She 
waits  in  the  railroad  eating  house  there.  I  worked  two 
years  in  a  restaurant  in  that  town.  Susie  has  it  worse 
than  I  do,  because  the  men  who  eat  at  railroad  stations 
gobble.  They  try  to  flirt  and  gobble  at  the  same  time. 
Whew!  Susie  and  I  have  it  all  planned  out.  We're 
saving  our  money,  and  when  we  get  enough  we're  going 
to  buy  a  little  cottage  and  five  acres  we  know  of,  and 
live  together,  and  grow  violets  for  the  Eastern  market. 
A  man  better  not  bring  his  appetite  within  a  mile  of 
that  ranch.' 

"  '  Don't  girls  ever  — '  I  commenced,  but  Mame  heads 
me  off,  sharp. 

"'No,  they  don't.  They  nibble  a  little  bit  some- 
times; that's  all.' 

"  *  I  thought  the  conf  ect  — ' 

" '  For  goodness'  sake,  change  the  subject,'  says 
Mame. 

"  As  I  said  before,  that  experience  put  me  wise  that 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  169 

the  feminine  arrangement  ever  struggles  after  decep- 
tions and  illusions.  Take  England  —  beef  made  her ; 
wieners  elevated  Germany;  Uncle  Sam  owes  his  great- 
ness to  fried  chicken  and  pie,  but  the  young  ladies  of 
the  Shetalkyou  schools,  they'll  never  believe  it.  Shake- 
speare, they  allow,  and  Rubinstein,  and  the  Rough 
Riders  is  what  did  the  trick. 

"  'Twas  a  situation  calculated  to  disturb.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  up  Mame;  and  yet  it  pained  me  to  think 
of  abandoning  the  practice  of  eating.  I  had  acquired 
the  habit  too  early.  For  twenty-seven  years  I  had  been 
blindly  rushing  upon  my  fate,  yielding  to  the  insidious 
lures  of  that  deadly  monster,  food.  It  was  too  late. 
I  was  a  ruminant  biped  for  keeps.  It  was  lobster  salad 
to  a  doughnut  that  my  life  was  going  to  be  blighted 
by  it. 

"  I  continued  to  board  at  the  Dugan  tent,  hoping 
that  Mame  would  relent.  I  had  sufficient  faith  in  true 
love  to  believe  that  since  it  has  often  outlived  the  absence 
of  a  square  meal  it  might,  in  time,  overcome  the  presence 
of  one.  I  went  on  ministering  to  my  fatal  vice,  al- 
though I  felt  that  each  time  I  shoved  a  potato  into  my 
mouth  in  Mame's  presence  I  might  be  burying  my  fond- 
est hopes. 

"  I  think  Collier  must  have  spoken  to  Mame  and  got 
the  same  answer,  for  one  day  he  orders  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  cracker,  and  sits  nibbling  the  corner  of  it  like 
a  girl  in  the  parlour,  that's  filled  up  in  the  kitchen, 
previous,  on  cold  roast  and  fried  cabbage.  I  caught  on 
and  did  the  same,  and  maybe  we  thought  we'd  made  a 


170  Heart  of  the  West 

hit !  The  next  day  we  tried  it  again,  and  out  comes  old 
man  Dugan  fetching  in  his  hands  the  fairy  viands. 

"  '  Kinder  off  yer  feed,  ain't  ye,  gents  ?  '  he  asks, 
fatherly  and  some  sardonic.  *  Thought  I'd  spell  Mame 
a  bit,  seein'  the  work  was  light,  and  my  rheumatiz  can 
stand  the  strain.' 

"  So  back  me  and  Collier  had  to  drop  to  the  heavy 
grub  again.  I  noticed  about  that  time  that  I  was  seized 
by  a  most  uncommon  and  devastating  appetite.  I  ate 
until  Mame  must  have  hated  to  see  me  darken  the  door. 
Afterward  I  found  out  that  I  had  been  made  the  victim 
of  the  first  dark  and  irreligious  trick  played  on  me  by 
Ed  Collier.  Him  and  me  had  been  taking  drinks  to- 
gether uptown  regular,  trying  to  drown  our  thirst  for 
food.  That  man  had  bribed  about  ten  bartenders  to 
always  put  a  big  slug  of  Appletree's  Anaconda  Ap- 
petite Bitters  in  every  one  of  my  drinks.  But  the  last 
trick  he  played  me  was  hardest  to  forget. 

"  One  day  Collier  failed  to  show  up  at  the  tent.  A 
man  told  me  he  left  town  that  morning.  My  only 
rival  now  was  the  bill  of  fare.  A  few  days  before  he 
left  Collier  had  presented  me  with  a  two-gallon  jug  of 
fine  whisky  which  he  said  a  cousin  had  sent  him  from 
Kentucky.  I  now  have  reason  to  believe  that  it  con- 
tained Appletree's  Anaconda  Appetite  Bitters  almost 
exclusively.  I  continued  to  devour  tons  of  provisions. 
In  Mame's  eyes  I  remained  a  mere  biped,  more  ruminant 
than  ever. 

"  About  a  week  after  Collier  pulled  his  freight  there 
came  a  kind  of  side-show  to  town,  and  hoisted  a  tent 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  171 

near  the  railroad.  I  judged  it  was  a  sort  of  fake 
museum  and  curiosity  business.  I  called  to  see  Mame- 
one  night,  and  Ma  Dugan  said  she  and  Thomas,  her 
younger  brother,  had  gone  to  the  show.  That  same 
thing  happened  for  three  nights  that  week.  Saturday 
night  I  caught  her  on  the  way  coming  back,  and  got  to 
sit  on  the  steps  a  while  and  talk  to  her.  I  noticed  she 
looked  different.  Her  eyes  were  softer,  and  shiny  like. 
Instead  of  a  Mame  Dugan  to  fly  from  the  voracity  of 
man  and  raise  violets,  she  seemed  to  be  a  Mame  more  in 
line  as  God  intended  her,  approachable,  and  suited  to 
bask  in  the  light  of  the  Brazilians  and  the  Kindler. 

" '  You  seem  to  be  right  smart  inveigled,'  says  I, 
*  with  the  Unparalleled  Exhibition  of  the  World's  Liv- 
ing Curiosities  and  Wonders.' 

"  '  It's  a  change,'  says  Mame. 

66 '  You'll  need  another,'  says  I,  *  if  you  keep  on 
going  every  night.' 

"  '  Don't  be  cross,  Jeff,'  says  she ;  *  it  takes  my  mind 
off  business.' 

"  '  Don't  the  curiosities  eat  ?  '  I  ask. 

" '  Not  all  of  them.     Some  of  them  are  wax.' 

" '  Look  out,  then,  that  you  don't  get  stuck,'  says  I, 
kind  of  flip  and  foolish. 

"  Mame  blushed.  I  didn't  know  what  to  think  about 
her.  My  hopes  raised  some  that  perhaps  my  attentions 
had  palliated  man's  awful  crime  of  visibly  introducing 
nourishment  into  his  system.  She  talked  some  about 
the  stars,  referring  to  them  with  respect  and  politeness, 
and  I  drivelled  a  quantity  about  united  hearts,  homes 


172  Heart  of  the  West 

made  bright  by  true  affection,  and  the  Kindler.  Mame 
listened  without  scorn,  and  I  says  to  myself,  *  Jeff,  old 
man,  you're  removing  the  hoodoo  that  has  clung  to  the 
consumer  of  victuals ;  you're  setting  your  heel  upon  the 
serpent  that  lurks  in  the  gravy  bowl.' 

"  Monday  night  I  drop  around.  Mame  is  at  the 
Unparalleled  Exhibition  with  Thomas. 

"  *  Now,  may  the  curse  of  the  forty-one  seven-sided 
sea  cooks,'  says  I,  *  and  the  bad  luck  of  the  nine  im- 
penitent grasshoppers  rest  upon  this  self-same  side- 
show at  once  and  forever  more.  Amen.  I'll  go  to  see 
it  myself  to-morrow  night  and  investigate  its  baleful 
charm.  Shall  man  that  was  made  to  inherit  the  earth 
be  bereft  of  his  sweetheart  first  by  a  knife  and  fork 
and  then  by  a  ten-cent  circus?  ' 

"  The  next  night  before  starting  out  for  the  ex- 
hibition tent  I  inquire  and  find  out  that  Mame  is  not 
at  home.  She  is  not  at  the  circus  with  Thomas  this 
time,  for  Thomas  waylays  me  in  the  grass  outside  of 
the  grub  tent  with  a  scheme  of  his  own  before  I  had 
time  to  eat  supper. 

" '  What'll  you  give  me,  Jeff,'  says  he,  <  if  I  tell  you 
something?  ' 

"  *  The  value  of  it,  son,'  I  says. 

"  *  Sis  is  stuck  on  a  freak,'  says  Thomas,  *  one  of  the 
side-show  freaks.  I  don't  like  him.  She  does.  I  over- 
heard 'em  talking.  Thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  know. 
Say,  Jeff,  does  it  put  you  wise  two  dollars*  worth? 
There's  a  target  rifle  up  town  that  — ' 

"  I  frisked  my  pockets  and  commenced  to  dribble  a 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  173 

stream  of  halves  and  quarters  into  Thomas's  hat.  The 
information  was  of  the  pile-driver  system  of  news,  and 
it  telescoped  my  intellects  for  a  while.  While  I  was 
leaking  small  change  and  smiling  foolish  on  the  outside, 
and  suffering  disturbances  internally,  I  was  saying, 
idiotically  and  pleasantly: 

"  '  Thank  you,  Thomas  —  thank  you  —  er  —  a 
freak,  you  said,  Thomas.  Now,  could  you  make  out 
the  monstrosity's  entitlements  a  little  clearer,  if  you 
please,  Thomas?  ' 

"  '  This  is  the  fellow,'  says  Thomas,  pulling  out  a 
yellow  handbill  from  his  pocket  and  shoving  it  under 
my  nose.  c  He's  the  Champion  Faster  of  the  Universe. 
I  guess  that's  why  Sis  got  soft  on  him.  He  don't  eat 
nothing.  He's  going  to  fast  forty-nine  days.  This 
is  the  sixth.  That's  him.' 

"  I  looked  at  the  name  Thomas  pointed  out  — '  Pro- 
fessor Eduardo  Collieri.'  *  Ah ! '  says  I,  in  admiration, 
6  that's  not  so  bad,  Ed  Collier.  I  give  you  credit  for 
the  trick.  But  I  don't  give  you  the  girl  until  she's 
Mrs.  Freak.' 

"  I  hit  the  sod  in  the  direction  of  the  show.  I  came 
up  to  the  rear  of  the  tent,  and,  as  I  did  so,  a  man  wiggled 
out  like  a  snake  from  under  the  bottom  of  the  canvas, 
scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  ran  into  me  like  a  locoed 
bronco.  I  gathered  him  by  the  neck  and  investigated 
him  by  the  light  of  the  stars.  It  is  Professor  Eduardo 
Collieri,  in  human  habiliments,  with  a  desperate  look 
in  one  eye  and  impatience  in  the  other. 

"'Hello,    Curiosity,'    says    I.     'Get   still   a   minute 


174  Heart  of  the  West 

and  let's  have  a  look  at  your  freakship.  How  do  you 
like  being  the  willopus-wallopus  or  the  bim-bam  from 
Borneo,  or  whatever  name  you  are  denounced  by  in 
the  side-show  business?  ' 

"  '  Jeff  Peters,'  says  Collier,  in  a  weak  voice.  c  Turn 
me  loose,  or  I'll  slug  you  one.  I'm  in  the  extremest 
kind  of  a  large  hurry.  Plands  off ! ' 

" '  Tut,  tut,  Eddie,'  I  answers,  holding  him  hard ; 
*  let  an  old  friend  gaze  on  the  exhibition  of  your  cu- 
riousness.  It's  an  eminent  graft  you  fell  onto,  my  son. 
But  don't  speak  of  assaults  and  battery,  because  you're 
not  fit.  The  best  you've  got  is  a  lot  of  nerve  and  a 
mighty  empty  stomach.'  And  so  it  was.  The  man  was 
as  weak  as  a  vegetarian  cat. 

"  '  I'd  argue  this  case  with  you,  Jeff,'  says  he,  re- 
gretful in  his  style,  '  for  an  unlimited  number  of  rounds 
if  I  had  half  an  hour  to  train  in  and  a  slab  of  beefsteak 
two  feet  square  to  train  with.  Curse  the  man,  I  say,  that 
invented  the  art  of  going  foodless.  May  his  soul  in 
eternity  be  chained  up  within  two  feet  of  a  bottomless  pit 
of  red-hot  hash.  I'm  abandoning  the  conflict,  Jeff; 
I'm  deserting  to  the  enemy.  You'll  find  Miss  Dugan 
inside  contemplating  the  only  living  mummy  and  the 
informed  hog.  She's  a  fine  girl,  Jeff.  I'd  have  beat 
you  out  if  I  could  have  kept  up  the  grubless  habit  a 
little  while  longer.  You'll  have  to  admit  that  the  fast- 
ing dodge  was  aces-up  for  a  while.  I  figured  it  out  that 
way.  But,  say,  Jeff,  it's  said  that  love  makes  the  world 
go  around.  Let  me  tell  you,  the  announcement  lacks 
verification.  It's  the  wind  from  the  dinner  horn  that 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  175 

does  it.  I  love  that  Mame  Dugan.  I've  gone  six  days 
without  food  in  order  to  coincide  with  her  sentiments. 
Only  one  bite  did  I  have.  That  was  when  I  knocked  the 
tattooed  man  down  with  a  war  club  and  got  a  sandwich 
he  was  gobbling.  The  manager  fined  me  all  my  salary ; 
but  salary  wasn't  what  I  was  after.  'Twas  that  girl. 
I'd  give  my  life  for  her,  but  I'd  endanger  my  immor- 
tal soul  for  a  beef  stew.  Hunger  is  a  horrible  thing, 
Jeff.  Love  and  business  and  family  and  religion  and 
art  and  patriotism  are  nothing  but  shadows  of  words 
when  a  man's  starving !  ' 

"  In  such  language  Ed  Collier  discoursed  to  me, 
pathetic.  I  gathered  the  diagnosis  that  his  affections 
and  his  digestions  had  been  implicated  in  a  scramble 
and  the  commissary  had  won  out.  I  never  disliked  Ed 
Collier.  I  searched  my  internal  admonitions  of  suit- 
able etiquette  to  see  if  I  could  find  a  remark  of  a  con- 
soling nature,  but  there  was  none  convenient. 

"  *  I'd  be  glad,  now,'  says  Ed,  '  if  you'll  let  me  go. 
I've  been  hard  hit,  but  I'll  hit  the  ration  supply  harder. 
I'm  going  to  clean  out  every  restaurant  in  town.  I'm 
going  to  wade  waist  deep  in  sirloins  and  swim  in  ham 
and  eggs.  It's  an  awful  thing,  Jeff  Peters,  for  a  man 
to  come  to  this  pass  —  to  give  up  his  girl  for  something 
to  eat  —  it's  worse  than  that  man  Esau,  that  swapped 
liis  copyright  for  a  partridge  —  but  then,  hunger's  a 
fierce  thing.  You'll  excuse  me,  now,  Jeff,  for  I  smell 
a  pervasion  of  ham  frying  in  the  distance,  and  my  legs 
are  crying  out  to  stampede  in  that  direction.' 

"  '  A  hearty  meal  to  you,  Ed  Collier,'  I  says  to  him, 


176  Heart  of  the  West 

6  and  no  hard  feelings.  For  myself,  I  am  projected  to 
be  an  unseldom  eater,  and  I  have  condolence  for  your 
predicaments.' 

"  There  was  a  sudden  big  whiff  of  frying  ham  smell 
on  the  breeze ;  and  the  Champion  Faster  gives  a  snort 
and  gallops  off  in  the  dark  toward  fodder. 

"  I  wish  some  of  the  cultured  outfit  that  are  always 
advertising  the  extenuating  circumstances  of  love  and 
romance  had  been  there  to  see.  There  was  Ed  Collier,  a 
fine  man  full  of  contrivances  and  flirtations,  abandoning 
the  girl  of  his  heart  and  ripping  out  into  the  contiguous 
territory  in  the  pursuit  of  sordid  grub.  'Twas  a  rebuke 
to  the  poets  and  a  slap  at  the  best-paying  element  of 
fiction.  An  empty  stomach  is  a  sure  antidote  to  an 
overfull  heart. 

"  I  was  naturally  anxious '  to  know  how  far  Mame 
was  infatuated  with  Collier  and  his  stratagems.  I  went 
inside  the  Unparalleled  Exhibition,  and  there  she  was. 
She  looked  surprised  to  see  me,  but  unguilty. 

"  *  It's  an  elegant  evening  outside,'  says  I.  *  The 
coolness  is  quite  nice  and  gratifying,  and  the  stars  are 
lined  out,  first  class,  up  where  they  belong.  Wouldn't 
you  shake  these  by-products  of  the  animal  kingdom 
long  enough  to  take  a  walk  with  a  common  human  who 
never  was  on  a  programme  in  his  life  ? ' 

"  Mame  gave  a  sort  of  sly  glance  around,  and  I 
knew  what  that  meant. 

"  '  Oh,'  says  I,  *  I  hate  to  tell  you ;  but  the  curios- 
ity that  lives  on  wind  has  flew  the  coop.  He  just 
crawled  out  under  the  tent.  By  this  time  he  has  amal- 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  177 

gamated  himself  with  half  the  delicatessen  truck  in 
town.' 

"  '  You  mean  Ed  Collier  ?  '  says  Mame. 

"  '  I  do,'  I  answers ; '  and  a  pity  it  is  that  he  has  gone 
back  to  crime  again.  I  met  him  outside  the  tent,  and 
he  exposed  his  intentions  of  devastating  the  food  crop 
of  the  world.  'Tis  enormously  sad  when  one's  ideal 
descends  from  his  pedestal  to  make  a  seventeen-year 
locust  of  himself.' 

"  Mame  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye  until  she  had 
corkscrewed  my  reflections. 

"  '  Jeff,'  says  she,  '  it  isn't  quite  like  you  to  talk 
that  way.  I  don't  care  to  hear  Ed  Collier  ridiculed. 
A  man  may  do  ridiculous  things,  but  they  don't  look 
ridiculous  to  the  girl  he  does  'em  for.  That  was  one 
man  in  a  hundred.  He  stopped  eating  just  to  please 
me.  I'd  be  hard-hearted  and  ungrateful  if  I  didn't 
feel  kindly  toward  him.  Could  you  do  what  he 
did?  ' 

"  *  I  know,'  says  I,  seeing  the  point,  *  I'm  condemned. 
I  can't  help  it.  The  brand  of  the  consumer  is  upon  my 
brow.  Mrs.  Eve  settled  that  business  for  me  when  she 
made  the  dicker  with  the  snake.  I  fell  from  the  fire 
into  the  frying-pan.  I  guess  I'm  the  Champion  Feaster 
of  the  Universe.'  I  spoke  humble,  and  Mame  mollified 
herself  a  little. 

"  '  Ed  Collier  and  I  are  good  friends,'  she  said,  *  the 
same  as  me  and  you.  I  gave  him  the  same  answer  I 
did  you  —  no  marrying  for  me.  I  liked  to  be  with  Ed 
and  talk  with  him.  There  was  something  mighty  pleas- 


178  Heart  of  the  West 

«.nt  to  me  in  the  thought  that  here  was  a  man  who  never 
used  a  knife  and  fork,  and  all  for  my  sake.' 

"'Wasn't  you  in  love  with  him?'  I  asks,  all  inju- 
dicious. '  Wasn't  there  a  deal  on  for  you  to  become 
Mrs.  Curiosity  ?  ' 

"  All  of  us  do  it  sometimes.  All  of  us  get  jostled 
out  of  the  line  of  profitable  talk  now  and  then.  Mame 
put  on  that  little  lemon  glace  smile  that  runs  between 
ice  and  sugar,  and  says,  much  too  pleasant :  '  You're 
short  on  credentials  for  asking  that  question,  Mr.  Peters. 
Suppose  you  do  a  forty-nine-day  fast,  just  to  give  you 
ground  to  stand  on,  and  then  maybe  I'll  answer  it.' 

"  So,  even  after  Collier  was  kidnapped  out  of  the 
•way  by  the  revolt  of  his  appetite,  my  own  prospects 
with  Mame  didn't  seem  to  be  improved.  And  then 
business  played  out  in  Guthrie. 

"  I  had  stayed  too  long  there.  The  Brazilians  I  had 
sold  commenced  to  show  signs  of  wear,  and  the  Kindler 
refused  to  light  up  right  frequent  on  wet  mornings. 
There  is  always  a  time,  in  my  business,  when  the  star 
of  success  says,  *  Move  on  to  the  next  town.'  I  was 
travelling  by  wagon  at  that  time  so  as  not  to  miss  any 
of  the  small  towns ;  so  I  hitched  up  a  few  days  later  and 
went  down  to  tell  Mame  good-bye.  I  wasn't  abandoning 
the  game;  I  intended  running  over  to  Oklahoma  City 
and  work  it  for  a  week  or  two.  Then  I  was  coming 
back  to  institute  fresh  proceedings  against  Mame. 

"  What  do  I  find  at  the  Dugans'  but  Mame  all  con- 
spicuous in  a  blue  travelling  dress,  with  her  little  trunk 
at  the  door.  It  seems  that  sister  Lottie  Bell,  who  is 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  179 

a  typewriter  in  Terre  Haute,  is  going  to  be  married 
next  Thursday,  and  Mame  is  off  for  a  week's  visit  to  be 
an  accomplice  at  the  ceremony.  Mame  is  waiting  for 
a  freight  wagon  that  is  going  to  take  her  to  Oklahoma, 
but  I  condemns  the  freight  wagon  with  promptness  and 
scorn,  and  offers  to  deliver  the  goods  myself.  Ma  Du- 
gan  sees  no  reason  why  not,  as  Mr.  Freighter  wants  pay 
for  the  job;  so,  thirty  minutes  later  Mame  and  I  pull 
out  in  my  light  spring  wagon  with  white  canvas  cover, 
and  head  due  south. 

"  That  morning  was  of  a  praiseworthy  sort.  The 
breeze  was  lively,  and  smelled  excellent  of  flowers  and 
grass,  and  the  little  cottontail  rabbits  entertained  them- 
selves with  skylarking  across  the  road.  My  two  Ken- 
tucky bays  went  for  the  horizon  until  it  come  sailing  in 
so  fast  you  wanted  to  dodge  it  like  a  clothesline.  Mame 
was  full  of  talk  and  rattled  on  like  a  kid  about  her  old 
home  and  her  school  pranks  and  the  things  she  liked 
and  the  hateful  ways  of  those  Johnson  girls  just  across 
the  street,  'way  up  in  Indiana.  Not  a  word  was  said 
about  Ed  Collier  or  victuals  or  such  solemn  subjects. 
About  noon  Mame  looks  and  finds  that  the  lunch  she 
had  put  up  in  a  basket  had  been  left  behind.  I  could 
have  managed  quite  a  collation,  but  Mame  didn't  seem 
to  be  grieving  over  nothing  to  eat,  so  I  made  no  lamen- 
tations. It  was  a  sore  subject  with  me,  and  I  ruled 
provender  in  all  its  branches  out  of  my  conversation. 

"  I  am  minded  to  touch  light  on  explanations  how  I 
came  to  lose  the  way.  The  road  was  dim  and  well 
grown  with  grass ;  and  there  was  Mame  by  my  side 


180  Heart  of  the  West 

confiscating  my  intellects  and  attention.  The  excuses 
are  good  or  they  are  not,  as  they  may  appear  to  you. 
But  I  lost  it,  and  at  dusk  that  afternoon,  when  we 
should  have  been  in  Oklahoma  City,  we  were  seesawing 
along  the  edge  of  nowhere  in  some  undiscovered  river 
bottom,  and  the  rain  was  falling  in  large,  wet  bunches. 
Down  there  in  the  swamps  we  saw  a  little  log  house  on 
a  small  knoll  of  high  ground.  The  bottom  grass  and 
the  chaparral  and  the  lonesome  timber  crowded  all 
around  it.  It  seemed  to  be  a  melancholy  little  house, 
and  you  felt  sorry  for  it.  'Twas  that  house  for 
the  night,  the  way  I  reasoned  it.  I  explained  to  Mame, 
and  she  leaves  it  to  me  to  decide.  She  doesn't  become 
galvanic  and  prosecuting,  as  most  women  would,  but 
she  says  it's  all  right;  she  knows  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it. 

"  We  found  the  house  was  deserted.  It  had  two 
empty  rooms.  There  was  a  little  shed  in  the  yard 
where  beasts  had  once  been  kept.  In  a  loft  of  it  was  a 
lot  of  old  hay.  I  put  my  horses  in  there  and  gave  them 
some  of  it,  for  which  they  looked  at  me  sorrowful, 
expecting  apologies.  The  rest  of  the  hay  I  carried 
into  the  house  by  armfuls,  with  a  view  to  accommo- 
dations. I  also  brought  in  the  patent  kindler  and  the 
Brazilians,  neither  of  which  are  guaranteed  against  the 
action  of  water. 

"  Mame  and  I  sat  on  the  wagon  seats  on  the  floor, 
and  I  lit  a  lot  of  the  kindler  on  the  hearth,  for  the 
night  was  chilly.  If  I  was  any  judge,  that  girl  en^ 
joyed  it.  It  was  a  change  for  her.  It  gave  her  a  dif- 
ferent point  of  view.  She  laughed  and  talked,  and  the 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  181 

kindler  made  a  dim  light  compared  to  her  eyes.  I  had 
a  pocketful  of  cigars,  and  as  far  as  I  was  concerned 
there  had  never  been  any  fall  of  man.  We  were  at  the 
same  old  stand  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Out  there 
somewhere  in  the  rain  and  the  dark  was  the  river  of 
Zion,  and  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  had  not 
yet  put  up  the  keep-off -the-grass  sign.  I  opened  up 
a  gross  or  two  of  the  Brazilians  and  made  Mame  put 
them  on  —  rings,  brooches,  necklaces,  eardrops,  brace- 
lets, girdles,  and  lockets.  She  flashed  and  sparkled  like 
a  million-dollar  princess  until  she  had  pink  spots  in 
her  cheeks  and  almost  cried  for  a  looking-glass. 

"  When  it  got  late  I  made  a  fine  bunk  on  the  floor 
for  Mame  with  the  hay  and  my  lap  robes  and  blan- 
kets out  of  the  wagon,  and  persuaded  her  to  lie  down. 
I  sat  in  the  other  room  burning  tobacco  and  listening 
to  the  pouring  rain  and  meditating  on  the  many  vicissi- 
tudes that  come  to  a  man  during  the  seventy  years  or 
so  immediately  preceding  his  funeral. 

"  I  must  have  dozed  a  little  before  morning,  for  my 
eyes  were  shut,  and  when  I  opened  them  it  was  daylight, 
and  there  stood  Mame  with  her  hair  all  done  up  neat 
and  correct,  and  her  eyes  bright  with  admiration  of 
existence. 

"  '  Gee  whiz,  Jeff ! '  she  exclaims,  *  but  I'm  hungry. 
I  could  eat  a  — ' 

*'  I  looked  up  and  caught  her  eye.  Her  smile  went 
back  in  and  she  gave  me  a  cold  look  of  suspicion.  Then 
I  laughed,  and  laid  down  on  the  floor  to  laugh  easier. 
It  seemed  funny  to  me.  By  nature  and  geniality  I  am 


182  Heart  of  the  West 

a  hearty  laugher,  and  I  went  the  limit.  When  I  came 
to,  Mame  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  me,  all  contami- 
nated with  dignity. 

"  '  Don't  be  angry,  Mame,'  I  says,  '  for  I  couldn't 
help  it.  It's  the  funny  way  you've  done  up  your  hair. 
If  you  could  only  see  it ! ' 

"  *  You  needn't  tell  stories,  sir,'  said  Mame,  cool  and 
advised.  '  My  hair  is  all  right.  I  know  what  you  were 
laughing  about.  Why,  Jeff,  look  outside,'  she  winds 
up,  peeping  through  a  chink  between  the  logs.  I  opened 
the  little  wooden  window  and  looked  out.  The  entire 
river  bottom  was  flooded,  and  the  knob  of  land  on  which 
the  house  stood  was  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a  rushing 
stream  of  yellow  water  a  hundred  yards  wide.  And  it 
was  still  raining  hard.  All  we  could  do  was  to  stay 
there  till  the  dove  brought  in  the  olive  branch. 

"  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  conversations  and  amuse- 
ments languished  during  that  day.  I  was  aware  that 
Mame  was  getting  a  too  prolonged  one-sided  view  of 
things  again,  but  I  had  no  way  to  change  it.  Per- 
sonally, I  was  wrapped  up  in  the  desire  to  eat.  I  had 
hallucinations  of  hash  and  visions  of  ham,  and  I  kept 
saying  to  myself  all  the  time,  *  What'll  you  have  to  eat, 
Jeff?  —  what '11  you  order,  now,  old  man,  when  the  waiter 
comes  ?  *  I  picks  out  to  myself  all  sorts  of  favourites 
from  the  bill  of  fare,  and  imagines  them  coming.  I 
guess  it's  that  way  with  all  very  hungry  men.  They 
can't  get  their  cogitations  trained  on  anything  but  some- 
thing to  eat.  It  shows  that  the  little  table  with  the 
broken-legged  caster  and  the  imitation  Worcester  sauce 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  183 

and  the  napkin  covering  up  the  coffee  stains  is  the 
paramount  issue,  after  all,  instead  of  the  question  of 
immortality  or  peace  between  nations. 

"  I  sat  there,  musing  along,  arguing  with  myself 
quite  heated  as  to  how  I'd  have  my  steak  —  with  mush- 
rooms or  a  la  Creole.  Mame>  was  on  the  other  seat, 
pensive,  her  head  leaning  on  her  hand.  fi  Let  the  pota- 
toes come  home-fried,'  I  States  in  my  mind,  *  and  brown 
the  hash  in  the  pan,  with  nine  poached  eggs  on  the  side.' 
I  felt,  careful,  in  my  own  pockets  to  see  if  I  could  find 
a  peanut  or  a  grain  or  two  of  popcorn. 

"  Night  came  on  again  with  the  river  still  rising 
and  the  rain  still  falling.  I  looked  at  Mame  and  I  no- 
ticed that  desperate  look  on  her  face  that  a  girl  always 
wears  when  she  passes  an  ice-cream  lair.  I  knew  that 
poor  girl  was  hungry  —  maybe  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life.  There  was  that  anxious  look  in  her  eye  that 
a  woman  has  only  when  she  has  missed  a  meal  or  feels 
her  skirt  coming  unfastened  in  the  back. 

"  It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  or  so  on  the  second 
night  when  we  sat,  gloomy,  in  our  shipwrecked  cabin. 
I  kept  jerking  my  mind  away  from  the  subject  of  food, 
but  it  kept  flopping  back  again  before  I  could  fasten 
it.  I  thought  of  everything  good  to  eat  I  had  ever 
heard  of.  I  went  away  back  to  my  kidhood  and  re- 
membered the  hot  biscuit  sopped  in  sorghum  and  bacon 
gravy  with  partiality  and  respect.  Then  I  trailed  along 
up  the  years,  pausing  at  green  apples  and  salt,  flap- 
jacks and  maple,  lye  hominy,  fried  chicken  Old  Virginia 
style,  corn  on  the  cob,  spareribs  and  sweet  potato  pie, 


184  Heart  of  the  West 

and  wound  up  with  Georgia  Brunswick  stew,  which  is  the 
top  notch  of  good  things  to  eat,  because  it  comprises  'em 
all. 

"  They  say  a  drowning  man  sees  a  panorama  of  his 
whole  life  pass  before  him.  Well,  when  a  man's  starv- 
ing he  sees  the  ghost  of  every  meal  he  ever  ate  set  out 
before  him,  and  he  invents  new  dishes  that  would  make 
the  fortune  of  a  chef.  If  somebody  would  collect  the 
last  words  of  men  who  starved  to  death  they'd  have  to 
sift  'em  mighty  fine  to  discover  the  sentiment,  but  they'd 
compile  into  a  cook  book  that  would  sell  into  the  millions. 

"  I  guess  I  must  have  had  my  conscience  pretty  well 
inflicted  with  culinary  meditations,  for,  without  intend- 
ing to  do  so,  I  says,  out  loud,  to  the  imaginary  waiter, 
'  Cut  it  thick  and  have  it  rare,  with  the  French  fried, 
and  six,  soft-scrambled,  on  toast.' 

"  Mame  turned  her  head  quick  as  a  wink.  Her  eyes 
were  sparkling  and  she  smiled  sudden. 

"  *  Medium  for  me,'  she  rattles  out,  *  with  the  Juli- 
ennes, and  three,  straight  up.  Draw  one,  and  brown 
the  wheats,  double  order  to  come.  Oh,  Jeff,  wouldn't 
it  be  glorious!  And  then  I'd  like  to  have  a  half  fry, 
and  a  little  chicken  curried  with  rice,  and  a  cup  custard 
with  ice  cream,  and  — ' 

"  *  Go  easy,'  I  interrupts ;  *  where's  the  chicken  liver 
pie,  and  the  kidney  saute  on  toast,  and  the  roast  lamb, 
and—' 

"  '  Oh,'  cuts  in  Mame,  all  excited,  *  with  mint  sauce, 
and  the  turkey  salad,  and  stuffed  olives,  and  raspberry 
tarts,  and — ' 


Cupid  a  la  Carte  185 

"  *  Keep  it  going,'  says  I.  *  Hurry  up  with  the  fried 
squash,  and  the  hot  corn  pone  with  sweet  milk,  and  don't 
forget  the  apple  dumpling  with  hard  sauce,  and  the 
cross-barred  dew-berry  pie — ' 

"  Yes,  for  ten  minutes  we  kept  up  that  kind  of 
restaurant  repartee.  We  ranges  up  and  down  and 
backward  and  forward  over  the  main  trunk  lines  and 
the  branches  of  the  victual  subject,  and  Mame  leads 
the  game,  for  she  is  apprised  in  the  ramifications  of 
grub,  and  the  dishes  she  nominates  aggravates  my 
yearnings.  It  seems  that  there  is  set  up  a  feeling  that 
Mame  will  line  up  friendly  again  with  food.  It  seems 
that  she  looks  upon  the  obnoxious  science  of  eating  with 
less  contempt  than  before. 

The  next  morning  we  find  that  the  flood  has  sub- 
sided. I  geared  up  the  bays,  and  we  splashed  out 
through  the  mud,  some  precarious,  until  we  found  the 
road  again.  We  were  only  a  few  miles  wrong,  and  in 
two  hours  we  were  in  Oklahoma  City.  The  first  thing 
we  saw  was  a  big  restaurant  sign,  and  we  piled  into  there 
in  a  hurry.  Here  I  finds  myself  sitting  with  Mame  at 
table,  with  knives  and  forks  and  plates  between  us, 
and  she  not  scornful,  but  smiling  with  starvation  and 
sweetness. 

"  'Twas  a  new  restaurant  and  well  stocked.  I  desig- 
nated a  list  of  quotations  from  the  bill  of  fare  that 
made  the  waiter  look  out  toward  the  wagon  to  see  how 
many  more  might  be  coming. 

"  There  we  were,  and  there  was  the  order  being 
served.  'Twas  a  banquet  for  a  dozen,  but  we  felt  like 


186  Heart  of  the  West 

a  dozen.  I  looked  across  the  table  at  Mame  and  smiled, 
for  I  had  recollections.  Mame  was  looking  at  the  table 
like  a  boy  looks  at  his  first  stem-winder.  Then  she 
looked  at  me,  straight  in  the  face,  and  two  big  tears  came 
in  her  eyes.  The  waiter  was  gone  after  more  grub. 

"  '  Jeff,'  she  says,  soft  like,  *  I've  been  a  foolish  girl. 
I've  looked  at  things  from  the  wrong  side.  I  never  felt 
this  way  before.  Men  get  hungry  every  day  like  this, 
don't  they?  They're  big  and  strong,  and  they  do  the 
hard  work  of  the  world,  and  they  don't  eat  just  to  spite 
silly  waiter  girls  in  restaurants,  do  they,  Jeff?  You 
said  once  —  that  is,  you  asked  me  —  you  wanted  me  to 
—  well,  Jeff,  if  you  still  care  —  I'd  be  glad  and  willing 
to  have  you  always  sitting  across  the  table  from  me. 
Now  give  me  something  to  eat,  quick,  please.' 

"  So,  as  I've  said,  a  woman  needs  to  change  her  point 
of  view  now  and  then.  They  get  tired  of  the  same  old 
sights  —  the  same  old  dinner  table,  washtub,  and  sew- 
ing machine.  Give  'em  a  touch  of  the  various  —  a  little 
travel  and  a  little  rest,  a  little  tomfoolery  along  with 
the  tragedies  of  keeping  house,  a  little  petting  after  the 
blowing-up,  a  little  upsetting  and  jostling  around  — 
and  everybody  in  the  game  will  have  chips  added  to 
their  stack  by  the  play." 


XI 

THE  CABALLERO'S  WAY 

THE  Cisco  Kid  had  killed  six  men  in  more  or  less  fair 
scrimmages,  had  murdered  twice  as  many  (mostly  Mexi- 
cans), and  had  winged  a  larger  number  whom  he  mod- 
estly forbore  to  count.  Therefore  a  woman  loved  him. 

The  Kid  was  twenty-five,  looked  twenty;  and  a  care- 
ful insurance  company  would  have  estimated  the  prob- 
able time  of  his  demise  at,  say,  twenty-six.  His  habitat 
was  anywhere  between  the  Frio  and  the  Rio  Grande. 
He  killed  for  the  love  of  it  —  because  he  was  quick- 
tempered—  to  avoid  arrest  —  for  his  own  amusement 
—  any  reason  that  came  to  his  mind  would  suffice.  He 
had  escaped  capture  because  he  could  shoot  five-sixths 
of  a  second  sooner  than  any  sheriff  or  ranger  in  the 
service,  and  because  he  rode  a  speckled  roan  horse  that 
knew  every  cow-path  in  the  mesquite  and  pear  thickets 
from  San  Antonio  to  Matamoras. 

Tonia  Perez,  the  girl  who  loved  the  Cisco  Kid,  was 
half  Carmen,  half  Madonna,  and  the  rest  —  oh,  yes,  a 
woman  kwho  jte  half  Carmen  and  half  Madonna  can  al- 
ways be  something  more  —  the  rest,  let  us  say,  was  hum- 
ming-bird. She  lived  in  a  grass-roofed  jacal  near  a 
little  Mexican  settlement  at  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of 
the  Frio.  With  her  lived  a  father  or  grandfather,  a 

187 


188  Heart  of  the  West 

lineal  Aztec,  somewhat  less  than  a  thousand  years  old, 
who  herded  a  hundred  goats  and  lived  in  a  continuous 
drunken  dream  from  drinking  mescal.  Back  of  the 
jacal  a  tremendous  forest  of  bristling  pear,  twenty  feet 
high  at  its  worst,  crowded  almost  to  its  door.  It  was 
along  the  bewildering  maze  of  this  spinous  thicket  that 
the  speckled  roan  would  bring  the  Kid  to  see  his  girl. 
And  once,  clinging  like  a  lizard  to  the  ridge-pole,  high 
up  under  the  peaked  grass  roof,  he  had  heard  Tonia, 
with  her  Madonna  face  and  Carmen  beauty  and  hum- 
ming-bird soul,  parley  with  the  sheriff's  posse,  denying 
knowledge  of  her  man  in  her  soft  melange  of  Spanish 
and  English. 

One  day  the  adjutant-general  of  the  State,  who  is, 
ex  offlcio,  commander  of  the  ranger  forces,  wrote  some 
sarcastic  lines  to  Captain  Duval  of  Company  X,  sta- 
tioned at  Laredo,  relative  to  the  serene  and  undisturbed 
existence  led  by  murderers  and  desperadoes  in  the  said 
captain's  territory. 

The  captain  turned  the  colour  of  brick  dust  under  his 
tan,  and  forwarded  the  letter,  after  adding  a  few  com- 
ments, per  ranger  Private  Bill  Adamson,  to  ranger 
Lieutenant  Sandridge,  camped  at  a  water  hole  on  the 
Nueces  with  a  squad  of  five  men  in  preservation  of  law 
and  order. 

Lieutenant  Sandridge  turned  a  beautiful  couleur  de 
rose  through  his  ordinary  strawberry  complexion,  tucked 
the  letter  in  his  hip  pocket,  and  chewed  off  the  ends  of 
his  gamboge  moustache. 

The  next  morning  he  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  alone 


The  Cdballero's  Way  189 

to  the  Mexican  settlement  at  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing 
of  the  Frio,  twenty  miles  away. 

Six  feet  two,  blond  as  a  Viking,  quiet  as  a  deacon, 
dangerous  as  a  machine  gun,  Sandridge  moved  among 
the  Jacales,  patiently  seeking  news  of  the  Cisco  Kid. 

Far  more  than  the  law,  the  Mexicans  dreaded  the  cold 
and  certain  vengeance  of  the  lone  rider  that  the  ranger 
sought.  It  had  been  one  of  the  Kid's  pastimes  to  shoot 
Mexicans  "  to  see  them  kick  " :  if  he  demanded  from 
them  moribund  Terpsichorean  feats,  simply  that  he 
might  be  entertained,  what  terrible  and  extreme  penal- 
ties would  be  certain  to  follow  should  they  anger  him! 
One  and  all  they  lounged  with  upturned  palms  and 
shrugging  shoulders,  filling  the  air  with  "  quien  sdbes  '* 
and  denials  of  the  Kid's  acquaintance. 

But  there  was  a  man  named  Fink  who  kept  a  store  at 
the  Crossing  —  a  man  of  many  nationalities,  tongues, 
interests,  and  ways  of  thinking. 

"  No  use  to  ask  them  Mexicans,"  he  said  to  Sandridge. 
"  They're  afraid  to  tell.  This  hombre  they  call  the  Kid 
—  Goodall  is  his  name,  ain't  it  ?  —  he's  been  in  my  store 
once  or  twice.  I  have  an  idea  you  might  run  across  him 
at  —  but  I  guess  I  don't  keer  to  say,  myself.  I'm  two 
seconds  later  in  pulling  a  gun  than  I  used  to  be,  and  the 
difference  is  worth  thinking  about.  But  this  Kid's  got 
a  half -Mexican  girl  at  the  Crossing  that  he  comes  to 
see.  She  lives  in  that  jacal  a  hundred  yards  down  the 
arroyo  at  the  edge  of  the  pear.  Maybe  she  —  no,  I 
don't  suppose  she  would,  but  that  jacal  would  be  a  good 
place  to  watch,  anyway." 


190  Heart  of  the  West 

Sandridge  rode  down  to  the  jacal  of  Perez.  The  sun 
was  low,  and  the  broad  shade  of  the  great  pear  thicket 
already  covered  the  grass-thatched  hut.  The  goats 
were  enclosed  for  the  night  in  a  brush  corral  near  by. 
A  few  kids  walked  the  top  of  it,  nibbling  the  chaparral 
leaves.  The  old  Mexican  lay  upon  a  blanket  on  the 
grass,  already  in  a  stupor  from  his  mescal,  and  dream- 
ing, perhaps,  of  the  nights  when  he  and  Pizarro  touched 
glasses  to  their  New  World  fortunes  —  so  old  his 
wrinkled  face  seemed  to  proclaim  him  to  be.  And  in 
the  door  of  the  jacal  stood  Tonia.  And  Lieutenant 
Sandridge  sat  in  his  saddle  staring  at  her  like  a  gannet 
agape  at  a  sailorman. 

The  Cisco  Kid  was  a  vain  person,  as  all  eminent  and 
successful  assassins  are,  and  his  bosom  would  have  been 
ruffled  had  he  known  that  at  a  simple  exchange  of 
glances  two  persons,  in  whose  minds  he  had  been  looming 
large,  suddenly  abandoned  (at  least  for  the  time)  all 
thought  of  him. 

Never  before  had  Tonia  seen  such  a  man  as  this.  He 
seemed  to  be  made  of  sunshine  and  blood-red  tissue  and 
clear  weather.  He  seemed  to  illuminate  the  shadow  of 
the  pear  when  he  smiled,  as  though  the  sun  were  rising 
again.  The  men  she  had  known  had  been  small  and 
dark.  Even  the  Kid,  in  spite  of  his  achievements,  was 
a  stripling  no  larger  than  herself,  with  black,  straight 
hair  and  a  cold,  marble  face  that  chilled  the  noonday. 

As  for  Tonia,  though  she  sends  description  to  the 
poorhouse,  let  her  make  a  millionaire  of  your  fancy. 
Her  blue-black  hair,  smoothly  divided  in  the  middle  and 


The  Caballero's  Way  191 

bound  close  to  her  head,  and  her  large  eyes  full  of  the 
Latin  melancholy,  gave  her  the  Madonna  touch.  Her 
motions  and  air  spoke  of  the  concealed  fire  and  the  de- 
sire to  charm  that  she  had  inherited  from  the  gitanas 
of  the  Basque  province.  As  for  the  humming-bird  part 
of  her,  that  dwelt  in  her  heart;  you  could  not  perceive 
it  unless  her  bright  red  skirt  and  dark  blue  blouse  gave 
you  a  symbolic  hint  of  the  vagarious  bird. 

The  newly  lighted  sun-god  asked  for  a  drink  of  water. 
Tonia  brought  it  from  the  red  jar  hanging  under  the 
brush  shelter.  Sandridge  considered  it  necessary  t« 
dismount  so  as  to  lessen  the  trouble  of  her  ministrations. 

I  play  no  spy ;  nor  do  I  assume  to  master  the  thoughts 
of  any  human  heart ;  but  I  assert,  by  the  chronicler's 
right,  that  before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  sped,  San- 
dridge was  teaching  her  how  to  plait  a  six-strand  raw- 
hide stake-rope,  and  Tonia  had  explained  to  him  that 
were  it  not  for  her  little  English  book  that  the  peripa- 
tetic padre  had  given  her  and  the  little  crippled  chivo, 
that  she  fed  from  a  bottle,  she  would  be  very,  very  lonely 
indeed. 

Which  leads  to  a  suspicion  that  the  Kid's  fences 
needed  repairing,  and  that  the  adjutant-general's  sar- 
casm had  fallen  upon  unproductive  soil. 

In  his  camp  by  the  water  hole  Lieutenant  Sandridge 
announced  and  reiterated  his  intention  of  either  causing 
the  Cisco  Kid  to  nibble  the  black  loam  of  the  Frio  coun- 
try prairies  or  of  haling  him  before  a  judge  and  jury. 
That  sounded  business-like.  Twice  a  week  he  rode  over 
to  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of  the  Frio,  and  directed 


192  Heart  of  the  West 

Tonia's  slim,  slightly  lemon-tinted  fingers  among  the 
intricacies  of  the  slowly  growing  lariata.  A  six-strand 
plait  is  hard  to  learn  and  easy  to  teach. 

The  ranger  knew  that  he  might  find  the  Kid  there  at 
any  visit.  He  kept  his  armament  ready,  and  had  a  fre- 
quent eye  for  the  pear  thicket  at  the  rear  of  the  jacal. 
Thus  he  might  bring  down  the  kite  and  the  humming- 
bird with  one  stone. 

While  the  sunny-haired  ornithologist  was  pursuing 
his  studies  the  Cisco  Kid  was  also  attending  to  his  pro- 
fessional duties.  He  moodily  shot  up  a  saloon  in  a 
small  cow  village  on  Quintana  Creek,  killed  the  town 
marshal  (plugging  him  neatly  in  the  centre  of  his  tin 
badge),  and  then  rode  away,  morose  and  unsatisfied. 
No  true  artist  is  uplifted  by  shooting  an  aged  man 
carrying  an  old-style  .38  bulldog. 

On  his  way  the  Kid  suddenly  experienced  the  yearn- 
ing that  all  men  feel  when  wrong-doing  loses  its  keen 
edge  of  delight.  He  yearned  for  the  woman  he  loved 
to  reassure  him  that  she  was  his  in  spite  of  it.  He 
wanted  her  to  call  his  bloodthirstiness  bravery  and  his 
cruelty  devotion.  He  wanted  Tonia  to  bring  him  water 
from  the  red  jar  under  the  brush  shelter,  and  tell  him 
how  the  chwo  was  thriving  on  the  bottle. 

The  Kid  turned  the  speckled  roan's  head  up  the  ten- 
mile  pear  flat  that  stretches  along  the  Arroyo  Hondo 
until  it  ends  at  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  of  the  Frio. 
The  roan  whickered ;  for  he  had  a  sense  of  locality  and 
direction  equal  to  that  of  a  belt-line  street-car  horse; 
and  he  knew  he  would  soon  be  nibbling  the  rich  mesquite 


The  Cdballero's  Way  193 

grass  at  the  end  of  a  forty-foot  stake-rope  while  Ulys- 
ses rested  his  head  in  Circe's  straw-roofed  hut. 

More  weird  and  lonesome  than  the  journey  of  am 
Amazonian  explorer  is  the  ride  of  one  through  a  Texas 
pear  flat.  With  dismal  monotony  and  startling  variety 
the  uncanny  and  multiform  shapes  of  the  cacti  lift  their 
twisted  trunks,  and  fat,  bristly  hands  to  encumber  the 
way.  The  demon  plant,  appearing  to  live  without  soil 
or  rain,  seems  to  taunt  the  parched  traveller  with  its 
lush  grey  greenness.  It  warps  itself  a  thousand  times 
about  what  look  to  be  open  and  inviting  paths,  only  to 
lure  the  rider  into  blind  and  impassable  spine-defended 
"  bottoms  of  the  bag,"  leaving  him  to  retreat,  if  he  can, 
with  the  points  of  the  compass  whirling  in  his  head. 

To  be  lost  in  the  pear  is  to  die  almost  the  death  of 
the  thief  on  the  cross,  pierced  by  nails  and  with  gro- 
tesque shapes  of  all  the  fiends  hovering  about. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  the  Kid  and  his  mount.  Wind- 
ing, twisting,  circh'ng,  tracing  the  most  fantastic  and 
bewildering  trail  ever  picked  out,  the  good  roan  lessened 
the  distance  to  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing  with  every  coil 
and  turn  that  he  made. 

While  they  fared  the  Kid  sang.  He  knew  but  one 
tune  and  sang  it,  as  he  knew  but  one  code  and  lived  it, 
and  but  one  girl  and  loved  her.  He  was  a  single-minded 
man  of  conventional  ideas.  He  had  a  voice  like  a  coyote 
with  bronchitis,  but  whenever  he  chose  to  sing  his  song 
he  sang  it.  It  was  a  conventional  song  of  the  camps 
and  trail,  running  at  its  beginning  as  near  as  may  be  to 
these  words: 


194  Heart  of  the  West 

Don't  you  monkey  with  my  Lulu  girl 
Or  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  — 

and  so  on.     The  roan  was  inured  to  it,  and  did  not  mind. 

But  even  the  poorest  singer  will,  after  a  certain  time, 
gain  his  own  consent  to  refrain  from  contributing  to  the 
world's  noises.  So  the  Kid,  by  the  time  he  was  within 
a  mile  or  two  of  Tonia's  jacal,  had  reluctantly  allowed 
his  song  to  die  away  —  not  because  his  vocal  perform- 
ance had  become  less  charming  to  his  own  ears,  but 
because  his  laryngeal  muscles  were  aweary. 

As  though  he  were  in  a  circus  ring  the  speckled  roan 
wheeled  and  danced  through  the  labyrinth  of  pear  until 
at  length  his  rider  knew  by  certain  landmarks  that  the 
Lone  Wolf  Crossing  was  close  at  hand.  Then,  where 
the  pear  was  thinner,  he  caught  sight  of  the  grass  roof 
of  the  jacal  and  the  hackberry  tree  on  the  edge  of  the 
arroyo.  A  few  yards  farther  the  Kid  stopped  the  roan 
and  gazed  intently  through  the  prickly  openings.  Then 
he  dismounted,  dropped  the  roan's  reins,  and  proceeded 
on  foot,  stooping  and  silent,  like  an  Indian.  The  roan, 
knowing  his  part,  stood  still,  making  no  sound. 

The  Kid  crept  noiselessly  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
pear  thicket  and  reconnoitered  between  the  leaves  of  a 
clump  of  cactus. 

Ten  yards  from  his  hiding-place,  in  the  shade  of  the 
jacal,  sat  his  Tonia  calmly  plaiting  a  rawhide  lariat. 
So  far  she  might  surely  escape  condemnation ;  women 
have  been  known,  from  time  to  time,  to  engage  in  more 
mischievous  occupations.  But  if  all  must  be  told,  there 
is  to  be  added  that  her  head  reposed  against  the  broar* 


The  Caballero's  Way  195 

and  comfortable  chest  of  a  tall  red-and-yellow  man,  and 
that  his  arm  was  about  her,  guiding  her  nimble  small 
fingers  that  required  so  many  lessons  at  the  intricate 
six-strand  plait. 

Sandridge  glanced  quickly  at  the  dark  mass  of  pear 
when  he  heard  a  slight  squeaking  sound  that  was  not 
altogether  unfamiliar.  A  gun-scabbard  will  make  that 
sound  when  one  grasps  the  handle  of  a  six-shooter  sud- 
denly. But  the  sound  was  not  repeated;  and  Tonia's 
fingers  needed  close  attention. 

And  then,  in  the  shadow  of  death,  they  began  to  talk 
of  their  love ;  and  in  the  still  July  afternoon  every  word 
they  uttered  reached  the  ears  of  the  Kid. 

"  Remember,  then,"  said  Tonia,  "  you  must  not  come 
again  until  I  send  for  you.  Soon  he  will  be  here.  A 
•uaquero  at  the  tienda  said  to-day  he  saw  him  on  the 
Guadalupe  three  days  ago.  When  he  is  that  near  he 
always  comes.  If  he  comes  and  finds  you  here  he  will 
kill  you.  So,  for  my  sake,  you  must  come  no  more  until 
I  send  you  the  word." 

«  All  right,"  said  the  ranger.     "  And  then  what?  " 

"  And  then,"  said  the  girl,  "  you  must  bring  your 
men  here  and  kill  him.  If  not,  he  will  kill  you." 

"  He  ain't  a  man  to  surrender,  that's  sure,"  said  San- 
dridge. "  It's  kill  or  be  killed  for  the  officer  that  goes 
up  against  Mr.  Cisco  Kid." 

"  He  must  die,"  said  the  girl.  "  Otherwise  there  will 
not  be  any  peace  in  the  world  for  thee  and  me.  He  has 
killed  many.  Let  him  so  die.  Bring  your  men,  and 
give  him  no  chance  to  escape." 


196  Heart  of  the  West 

"  You  used  to  think  right  much  of  him,"  said  San- 
dridge. 

Tonia  dropped  the  lariat,  twisted  herself  around,  and 
curved  a  lemon-tinted  arm  over  the  ranger's  shoulder. 

"  But  then,"  she  murmured  in  liquid  Spanish,  "  I  had 
not  beheld  thee,  thou  great,  red  mountain  of  a  man! 
And  thou  art  kind  and  good,  as  well  as  strong.  Could 
one  choose  him,  knowing  thee?  Let  him  die;  for  then 
I  will  not  be  filled  with  fear  by  day  and  night  lest  he 
hurt  thee  or  me." 

"  How  can  I  know  when  he  comes  ?  "  asked  Sandridge. 

"  When  he  comes,"  said  Tonia,  "  he  remains  two 
days,  sometimes  three.  Gregorio,  the  small  son  of  old 
Luisa,  the  lavandera,  has  a  swift  pony.  I  will  write 
a  letter  to  thee  and  send  it  by  him,  saying  how  it  will 
be  best  to  come  upon  him.  By  Gregorio  will  the  letter 
come.  And  bring  many  men  with  thee,  and  have  much 
care,  oh,  dear  red  one,  for  the  rattlesnake  is  not  quicker 
to  strike  than  is  '  El  Chivato,'  as  they  call  him,  to  send 
a  ball  from  his  pistola." 

"  The  Kid's  handy  with  his  gun,  sure  enough,"  admit- 
ted Sandridge,  "  but  when  I  come  for  him  I  shall  come 
alone.  I'll  get  him  by  myself  or  not  at  all.  The  Cap 
wrote  one  or  two  things  to  me  that  make  me  want  to  do 
the  trick  without  any  help.  You  let  me  know  when 
Mr.  Kid  arrives,  and  I'll  do  the  rest." 

"  I  will  send  you  the  message  by  the  boy  Gregorio," 
said  the  girl.  "  I  knew  you  were  braver  than  that  small 
slayer  of  men  who  never  smiles.  -  How  could  I  ever  have 
thought  I  cared  for  him?  " 


The  Caballero's  Way  197 

It  was  time  for  the  ranger  to  ride  back  to  his  camp  on 
the  water  hole.  Before  he  mounted  his  horse  he  raised 
the  slight  form  of  Tonia  with  one  arm  high  from  the 
earth  for  a  parting  salute.  The  drowsy  stillness  of  the 
torpid  summer  air  still  lay  thick  upon  the  dreaming 
afternoon.  The  smoke  from  the  fire  in  the  jacal,  where 
the  frijoles  blubbered  in  the  iron  pot,  rose  straight  as 
a  plumb-line  above  the  clay-daubed  chimney.  No  sound 
or  movement  disturbed  the  serenity  of  the  dense  pear 
thicket  ten  yards  away. 

When  the  form  of  Sandridge  had  disappeared,  loping 
his  big  dun  down  the  steep  banks  of  the  Frio  crossing, 
the  Kid  crept  back  to  his  own  horse,  mounted  him,  and 
rode  back  along  the  tortuous  trail  he  had  come. 

But  not  far.  He  stopped  and  waited  in  the  silent 
depths  of  the  pear  until  half  an  hour  had  passed.  And 
then  Tonia  heard  the  high,  untrue  notes  of  his  un- 
musical singing  coming  nearer  and  nearer;  and  she  ran 
to  the  edge  of  the  pear  to  meet  him. 

The  Kid  seldom  smiled;  but  he  smiled  and  waved  his 
hat  when  he  saw  her.  He  dismounted,  and  his  girl 
sprang  into  his  arms.  The  Kid  looked  at  her  fondly. 
His  thick,  black  hair  clung  to  his  head  like  a  wrinkled 
mat.  The  meeting  brought  a  slight  ripple  of  some 
undercurrent  of  feeling  to  his  smooth,  dark  face  that 
was  usually  as  motionless  as  a  clay  mask. 

66  How's  my  girl  ?  "  he  asked,  holding  her  close. 

"  Sick  of  waiting  so  long  for  you,  dear  one,"  she 
answered.  "  My  eyes  are  dim  with  always  gazing  into 
that  devil's  pincushion  through  which  you  come.  And 


198  Heart  of  the  West 

I  can  see  into  it  such  a  little  way,  too.  But  you  are 
here,  beloved  one,  and  I  will  not  scold.  Que  mal 
muchacho!  not  to  come  to  see  your  alma  more  often. 
Go  in  and  rest,  and  let  me  water  your  horse  and  stake 
him  with  the  long  rope.  There  is  cool  water  in  the  jar 
for  you." 

The  Kid  kissed  her  affectionately. 

"  Not  if  the  court  knows  itself  do  I  let  a  lady  stake 
my  horse  for  me,"  said  he.  "  But  if  you'll  run  in, 
chica,  and  throw  a  pot  of  coffee  together  while  I  attend 
to  the  caballo,  I'll  be  a  good  deal  obliged." 

Besides  his  marksmanship  the  Kid  had  another  at- 
tribute for  which  he  admired  himself  greatly.  He  was 
muy  cdballero,  as  the  Mexicans  express  it,  where  the 
ladies  were  concerned.  For  them  he  had  always  gentle 
words  and  consideration.  He  could  not  have  spoken 
a  harsh  word  to  a  woman.  He  might  ruthlessly  slay 
their  husbands  and  brothers,  but  he  could  not  have  laid 
the  weight  of  a  finger  in  anger  upon  a  woman.  Where- 
fore many  of  that  interesting  division  of  humanity  who 
had  come  under  the  spell  of  his  politeness  declared  their 
disbelief  in  the  stories  circulated  about  Mr.  Kid.  One 
shouldn't  believe  everything  one  heard,  they  said. 
When  confronted  by  their  indignant  men  folk  with 
proof  of  the  caballero's  deeds  of  infamy,  they  said 
maybe  he  had  been  driven  to  it,  and  that  he  knew  how 
to  treat  a  lady,  anyhow. 

Considering  this  extremely  courteous  idiosyncrasy  of 
the  Kid  and  the  pride  that  he  took  in  it,  one  can  per- 


The  Caballero's  Way  199 

ceive  that  the  solution  of  the  problem  that  was  presented 
to  him  by  what  he  saw  and  heard  from  his  hiding-place 
in  the  pear  that  afternoon  (at  least  as  to  one  of  the 
actors)  must  have  been  obscured  by  difficulties.  And 
yet  one  could  not  think  of  the  Kid  overlooking  little 
matters  of  that  kind. 

At  the  end  of  the  short  twilight  they  gathered  around 
a  supper  of  frijoles,  goat  steaks,  canned  peaches,  and 
coffee,  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  in  the  jacal.  After- 
ward, the  ancestor,  his  flock  corralled,  smoked  a  ciga- 
rette and  became  a  mummy  in  a  grey  blanket.  Tonia 
washed  the  few  dishes  while  the  Kid  dried  them  with 
the  flour-sacking  towel.  Her  eyes  shone;  she  chatted 
volubly  of  the  inconsequent  happenings  of  her  small 
world  since  the  Kid's  last  visit;  it  was  as  all  his  other 
home-comings  had  been. 

Then  outside  Tonia  swung  in  a  grass  hammock  with 
her  guitar  and  sang  sad  canciones  de  amor. 

"  Do  you  love  me  just  the  same,  old  girl?  "  asked  the 
Kid,  hunting  for  his  cigarette  papers. 

"  Always  the  same,  little  one,"  said  Tonia,  her  dark 
eyes  lingering  upon  him. 

"  I  must  go  over  to  Fink's,"  said  the  Kid,  rising, 
"  for  some  tobacco.  I  thought  I  had  another  sack  in 
my  coat.  I'll  be  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Hasten,"  said  Tonia,  "  and  tell  me  —  how  long 
shall  I  call  you  my  own  this  time?  Will  you  be  gone 
again  to-morrow,  leaving  me  to  grieve,  or  will  you  be 
longer  with  your  Tonia  ?  " 


200  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Oh,  I  might  stay  two  or  three  days  this  trip,"  said 
the  Kid,  yawning.  "  I've  been  on  the  dodge  for  a 
month,  and  I'd  like  to  rest  up." 

He  was  gone  half  an  hour  for  his  tobacco.  When 
he  returned  Tonia  was  still  lying  in  the  hammock. 

"  It's  funny,"  said  the  Kid,  "  how  I  feel.  I  feel  like 
there  was  somebody  lying  behind  every  bush  and  tree 
waiting  to  shoot  me.  I  never  had  mullygrubs  like  them 
before.  Maybe  it's  one  of  them  presumptions.  I've 
got  half  a  notion  to  light  out  in  the  morning  before 
day.  The  Guadalupe  country  is  burning  up  about  that 
old  Dutchman  I  plugged  down  there." 

"  You  are  not  afraid  —  no  one  could  make  my  brave 
little  one  fear." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  been  usually  regarded  as  a  jack- 
rabbit  when  it  comes  to  scrapping;  but  I  don't  want  a 
posse  smoking  me  out  when  I'm  in  your  jacal.  Some- 
body might  get  hurt  that  oughtn't  to." 

"  Remain  with  your  Tonia ;  no  one  will  find  you  here." 

The  Kid  looked  keenly  into  the  shadows  up  and  down 
the  arroyo  and  toward  the  dim  lights  of  the  Mexican 
village. 

"  I'll  see  how  it  looks  later  on,"  was  his  decision. 

At  midnight  a  horseman  rode  into  the  rangers'  camp, 
blazing  his  way  by  noisy  u  halloes  "  to  indicate  a  paci- 
fic mission.  Sandridge  and  one  or  two  others  turned  out 
to  investigate  the  row.  The  rider  announced  himself  to 
be  Domingo  Sales,  from  the  Lone  Wolf  Crossing.  He 
bore  a  letter  for  Senor  Sandridge.  Old  Luisa,  the 


The  Caballero's  Way  201 

lavandera,  had  persuaded  him  to  bring  it,  he  said,  her 
son  Gregorio  being  too  ill  of  a  fever  to  ride. 

Sandridge  lighted  the  camp  lantern  a.ad  read  the  let- 
ter.   These  were  its  words: 

Dear  One:  He  has  come.  Hardly  had  you  ridden  away  when 
he  came  out  of  the  pear.  When  he  first  talked  he  said  he  would 
stay  three  days  or  more.  Then  as  it  grew  later  he  was  like  a 
wolf  or  a  fox,  and  walked  about  without  rest,  looking  and  listen- 
ing. Soon  he  said  he  must  leave  before  daylight  when  it  is  dark 
and  stillest.  And  then  he  seemed  to  suspect  that  I  be  not  true 
to  him.  He  looked  at  me  so  strange  that  I  am  frightened.  I 
swear  to  him  that  I  love  him,  his  own  Tonia.  Last  of  all  he  said 
I  must  prove  to  him  I  am  true.  He  thinks  that  even  now  men. 
are  waiting  to  kill  him  as  he  rides  from  my  house.  To  escape 
he  says  he  will  dress  in  my  clothes,  my  red  skirt  and  the  blue 
waist  I  wear  and  the  brown  mantilla  over  the  head,  and  thus 
ride  away.  But  before  that  he  says  that  I  must  put  on  his 
clothes,  his  pantalones  and  camisa  and  hat,  and  ride  away  on 
his  horse  from  the  jacal  as  far  as  the  big  road  beyond  the  crossing 
and  back  again.  This  before  he  goes,  so  he  can  tell  if  I  am 
true  and  if  men  are  hidden  to  shoot  him.  It  is  a  terrible  thing. 
An  hour  before  daybreak  this  is  to  be.  Come,  my  dear  one,  and 
kill  this  man  and  take  me  for  your  Tonia.  Do  not  try  to  take 
hold  of  him  alive,  but  kill  him  quickly.  Knowing  all,  you  should 
do  that.  You  must  come  long  before  the  time  and  hide  yourself 
in  the  little  shed  near  the  jacal  where  the  wagon  and  saddles  are 
kept.  It  is  dark  in  there.  He  will  wear  my  red  skirt  and  blue 
waist  and  brown  mantilla.  I  send  you  a  hundred  kisses.  Come 
surely  and  shoot  quickly  and  straight. 

THINE  Owx  TONIA. 


Sandridge  quickly  explained  to  his  men  the  official 
part  of  the  missive.  The  rangers  protested  against  his 
going  alone. 

"  I'll   get    him    easy    enough,"    said   the   lieutenant. 


202  Heart  of  the  West 

"  The  girl's  got  him  trapped.  And  don't  even  think 
he'll  get  the  drop  on  me." 

Sandridge  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  to  the  Lone 
Wolf  Crossing.  He  tied  his  big  dun  in  a  clump  of 
brush  on  the  arroyo,  took  his  Winchester  from  its  scab- 
bard, and  carefully  approached  the  Perez  jacal.  There 
was  only  the  half  of  a  high  moon  drifted  over  by  ragged, 
milk-white  gulf  clouds. 

The  wagon-shed  was  an  excellent  place  for  ambush; 
and  the  ranger  got  inside  it  safely.  In  the  black 
shadow  of  the  brush  shelter  in  front  of  the  jacal  he 
could  see  a  horse  tied  and  hear  him  impatiently  pawing 
the  hard-trodden  earth. 

He  waited  almost  an  hour  before  two  figures  came 
out  of  the  jacal.  One,  in  man's  clothes,  quickly  mounted 
the  horse  and  galloped  past  the  wagon-shed  toward  the 
crossing  and  village.  And  then  the  other  figure,  in 
skirt,  waist,  and  mantilla  over  its  head,  stepped 
out  into  the  faint  moonlight,  gazing  after  the  rider. 
Sandridge  thought  he  would  take  his  chance  then  be- 
fore Tonia  rode  back.  He  fancied  she  might  not  care 
to  see  it. 

"  Throw  up  your  hands,"  he  ordered  loudly,  step- 
ping out  of  the  wagon-shed  with  his  Winchester  at  hik 
shoulder. 

There  was  a  quick  turn  of  the  figure,  but  no  move- 
ment to  obey,  so  the  ranger  pumped  in  the  bullets  — 
one  —  two  —  three  —  and  then  twice  more ;  for  you 
never  could  be  too  sure  of  bringing  down  the  Cisco 


The  Caballero's  Way  203 

Kid.  There  was  no  danger  of  missing  at  ten  paces, 
even  in  that  half  moonlight. 

The  old  ancestor,  asleep  on  his  blanket,  was  awak- 
ened by  the  shots.  Listening  further,  he  heard  a  great 
cry  from  some  man  in  mortal  distress  or  anguish, 
and  rose  up  grumbling  at  the  disturbing  ways  of  mod- 
erns. 

The  tall,  red  ghost  of  a  man  burst  into  the  }acal> 
reaching  one  hand,  shaking  like  a  tule  reed,  for  the 
lantern  hanging  on  its  nail.  The  other  spread  a  letter 
on  the  table. 

"  Look  at  this  letter,  Perez,"  cried  the  man.  "  Who 
wrote  it?" 

"Ah,  Dios!  it  is  Senor  Sandridge,"  mumbled  the  old 
man,  approaching.  "  Pues,  senor,  that  letter  was 
written  by  '  El  Chivato,9  as  he  is  called  —  by  the  man 
of  Tonia.  They  say  he  is  a  bad  man;  I  do  not  know. 
While  Tonia  slept  he  wrote  the  letter  and  sent  it  by 
this  old  hand  of  mine  to  Domingo  Sales  to  be  brought 
to  you.  Is  there  anything  wrong  in  the  letter?  I  am 
very  old;  and  I  did  not  know.  Valgame  Dios!  it  is  a 
very  foolish  world;  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  house 
to  drink  —  nothing  to  drink." 

Just  then  all  that  Sandridge  could  think  of  to  do 
was  to  go  outside  and  throw  himself  face  downward 
in  the  dust  by  the  side  of  his  humming-bird,  of  whom 
not  a  feather  fluttered.  He  was  not  a  cdballero  by  in- 
stinct, and  he  could  not  understand  the  niceties  of  re- 
venge. 


204  Heart  of  the  West 

A  mile  away  the  rider  who  had  ridden  past  the  wagon- 
shed  struck  up  a  harsh,  untuneful  song,  the  words  of 
which  began : 

Don't  you  monkey  with  my  Lulu  girl 
Or  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  — 


XII 
THE  SPHINX  APPLE 

TWENTY  miles  out  from  Paradise,  and  fifteen  miles 
short  of  Sunrise  City,  Bildad  Rose,  the  stage-driver, 
stopped  his  team.  A  furious  snow  had  been  falling 
all  day.  Eight  inches  it  measured  now,  on  a  level.  The 
remainder  of  the  road  was  not  without  peril  in  day- 
light, creeping  along  the  ribs  of  a  bijou  range  of  ragged 
mountains.  Now,  when  both  snow  and  night  masked  its 
dangers,  further  travel  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  said 
Bildad  Rose.  So  he  pulled  up  his  four  stout  horses,  and 
delivered  to  his  five  passengers  oral  deductions  of  his 
wisdom. 

Judge  Menefee,  to  whom  men  granted  leadership  and 
the  initiatory  as  upon  a  silver  salver,  sprang  from  the 
coach  at  once.  Four  of  his  fellow-passengers  followed, 
inspired  by  his  example,  ready  to  explore,  to  objurgate, 
to  resist,  to  submit,  to  proceed,  according  as  their  prime 
factor  might  be  inclined  to  sway  them.  The  fifth  pas- 
senger, a  young  woman,  remained  in  the  coach. 

Bildad  had  halted  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  first 
mountain  spur.  Two  rail-fences,  ragged-black,  hemmed 
the  road.  Fifty  yards  above  the  upper  fence,  showing 
a  dark  blot  in  the  white  drifts,  stood  a  small  house. 
Upon  this  house  descended  —  or  rather  ascended  — 

205 


206  Heart  of  the  West 

Judge  Menefee  and  his  cohorts  with  boyish  whoops  born 
of  the  snow  and  stress.  They  called;  they  pounded  at 
window  and  door.  At  the  inhospitable  silence  they 
waxed  restive;  they  assaulted  and  forced  the  pregnable 
barriers,  and  invaded  the  premises. 

The  watchers  from  the  coach  heard  stumblings  and 
shoutings  from  the  interior  of  the  ravaged  house.  Be- 
fore long  a  light  within  flickered,  glowed,  flamed  high 
and  bright  and  cheerful.  Then  came  running  back 
through  the  driving  flakes  the  exuberant  explorers. 
More  deeply  pitched  than  the  clajion  —  even  orchestral 
in  volume  —  the  voice  of  Judge  Menefee  proclaimed  the 
succour  that  lay  in  apposition  with  their  state  of  travail. 
The  one  room  of  the  house  was  uninhabited,  he  said,  and 
bare  of  furniture;  but  it  contained  a  great  fireplace; 
and  they  had  discovered  an  ample  store  of  chopped  wood 
in  a  lean-to  at  the  rear.  Housing  and  warmth  against 
the  shivering  night  were  thus  assured.  For  the  placa- 
tion  of  Bildad  Rose  there  was  news  of  a  stable,  not 
ruined  beyond  service,  with  hay  in  a  loft,  near  the  house. 

"  Gentlemen,"  cried  Bildad  Rose  from  his  seat, 
swathed  in  coats  and  robes,  "  tear  me  down  two  panels 
of  that  fence,  so  I  can  drive  in.  That  is  old  man  Red- 
ruth's  shanty.  I  thought  we  must  be  nigh  it.  They 
took  him  to  the  foolish  house  in  August." 

Cheerfully  the  four  passengers  sprang  at  the  snow- 
capped rails.  The  exhorted  team  tugged  the  coach  up 
the  slant  to  the  door  of  the  edifice  from  which  a  mid- 
summer madness  had  ravished  its  proprietor.  The  driver 
and  two  of  the  passengers  began  to  unhitch.  Judge 


The  Sphinx  Apple  ,207 

Menefee  opened  the  door  of  the  coach,  and  removed  his 
hat. 

"  I  have  to  announce,  Miss  Garland,"  said  he,  "  the 
enforced  suspension  of  our  journey.  The  driver  asserts 
that  the  risk  in  travelling  the  mountain  road  by  night 
is  too  great  even  to  consider.  It  will  be  necessary  to  re- 
main in  the  shelter  of  this  house  until  morning.  I  beg 
that  you  will  feel  that  there  is  nothing  to  fear  beyond 
a  temporary  inconvenience.  I  have  personally  inspected 
the  house,  and  find  that  there  are  means  to  provide 
against  the  rigour  of  the  weather,  at  least.  You  shall 
be  made  as  comfortable  as  possible.  Permit  me  to  assist 
you  to  alight." 

To  the  Judge's  side  came  the  passenger  whose  pursuit 
in  life  was  the  placing  of  the  Little  Goliath  windmill. 
His  name  was  Dunwoody;  but  that  matters  not  much. 
In  travelling  merely  from  Paradise  to  Sunrise  City  one 
needs  little  or  no  name.  Still,  one  who  would  seek  to 
divide  honours  with  Judge  Madison  L.  Menefee  deserves 
a  cognomenal  peg  upon  which  Fame  may  hang  a  wreath. 
Thus  spake,  loudly  and  buoyantly,  the  aerial  miller: 

"  Guess  you'll  have  to  climb  out  of  the  ark,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Farland.  This  wigwam  ain't  exactly  the  Palmer  House, 
but  it  turns  snow,  and  they  won't  search  your  grip  for 
souvenir  spoons  when  you  leave.  We've  got  a  fire  go- 
ing; and  we'll  fix  you  up  with  dry  Trilby s  and  keep  the 
mice  away,  anyhow,  all  right,  all  right." 

One  of  the  two  passengers  who  were  struggling  in 
a  melee  of  horses,  harness,  snow,  and  the  sarcastic  in- 
junctions of  Bildad  Rose,  called  loudly  from  the  whirl 


208 .  Heart  of  the  West 

of  his  volunteer  duties :  "  Say !  some  of  you  fellows  get 
Miss  Solomon  into  the  house,  will  you?  Whoa,  there! 
you  confounded  brute !  " 

Again  must  it  be  gently  urged  that  in  travelling  from 
Paradise  to  Sunrise  City  an  accurate  name  is  prodigal- 
ity. When  Judge  Menefee  —  sanctioned  to  the  act  by 
his  grey  hair  and  widespread  repute  —  had  introduced 
himself  to  the  lady  passenger,  she  had,  herself,  sweetly 
breathed  a  name,  in  response,  that  the  hearing  of  the 
male  passengers  had  variously  interpreted.  In  the  not 
un jealous  spirit  of  rivalry  that  eventuated,  each  clung 
stubbornly  to  his  own  theory.  For  the  lady  passenger 
to  have  reasseverated  or  corrected  would  have  seemed 
didactic  if  not  unduly  solicitous  of  a  specific  acquaint- 
ance. Therefore  the  lady  passenger  permitted  herself 
to  be  Garlanded  and  McFarlanded  and  Solomoned  with 
equal  and  discreet  complacency.  It  is  thirty-five  miles 
from  Paradise  to  Sunrise  City.  Compagnon  de  voyage 
is  name  enough,  by  the  gripsack  of  the  Wandering  Jew  I 
for  so  brief  a  journey. 

Soon  the  little  party  of  wayfarers  were  happily  seated 
in  a  cheerful  arc  before  the  roaring  fire.  The  robes, 
cushions,  and  removable  portions  of  the  coach  had  been 
brought  in  and  put  to  service.  The  lady  passenger  chose 
a  place  near  the  hearth  at  one  end  of  the  arc.  There  she 
graced  almost  a  throne  that  her  subjects  had  prepared. 
She  sat  upon  cushions  and  leaned  against  an  empty  box 
and  barrel,  robe  bespread,  which  formed  a  defence  from 
the  invading  draughts.  She  extended  her  feet,  delec* 


The  Sphinx  Apple  209 

tably  shod,  to  the  cordial  heat.  She  ungloved  her  hands, 
but  retained  about  her  neck  her  long  fur  boa.  The  un- 
stable flames  half  revealed,  while  the  warding  boa  half 
submerged,  her  face  —  a  youthful  face,  altogether 
feminine,  clearly  moulded  and  calm  with  beauty's  un- 
challenged confidence.  Chivalry  and  manhood  were  here 
vying  to  please  and  comfort  her.  She  seemed  to  accept 
their  devoirs  —  not  piquantly,  as  one  courted  and  at- 
tended ;  nor  preeningly,  as  many  of  her  sex  unworthily 
reap  their  honours;  nor  yet  stolidly,  as  the  ox  receives 
his  hay ;  but  concordantly  with  nature's  own  plan  — 
as  the  lily  ingests  the  drop  of  dew  foreordained  to  its  re- 
freshment. 

Outside  the  wind  roared  mightily,  the  fine  snow  whizzed 
through  the  cracks,  the  cold  besieged  the  backs  of  the 
immolated  six ;  but  the  elements  did  not  lack  a  champion 
that  night.  Judge  Menefee  was  attorney  for  the  storm. 
The  weather  was  his  client,  and  he  strove  by  special 
pleading  to  convince  his  companions  in  that  frigid  jury- 
box  that  they  sojourned  in  a  bower  of  roses,  beset  only 
by  benignant  zephyrs.  He  drew  upon  a  fund  of  gaiety, 
wit,  and  anecdote,  sophistical,  but  crowned  with  success. 
His  cheerfulness  communicated  itself  irresistibly.  Each 
one  hastened  to  contribute  his  quota  toward  the  general 
optimism.  Even  the  lady  passenger  was  moved  to  ex- 
pression. 

"  I  think  it  is  quite  charming,"  she  said,  in  her  slow, 
crystal  tones. 

At  intervals  some  one  of  the  passengers  would  rise 


210  Heart  of  the  West 

and  humorously  explore  the  room.  There  was  little 
evidence  to  be  collected  of  its  habitation  by  old  man 
Redruth. 

Bildad  Rose  was  called  upon  vivaciously  for  the  ex- 
hermit's  history.  Now,  since  the  stage-driver's  horses 
were  fairly  comfortable  and  his  passengers  appeared  to 
be  so,  peace  and  comity  returned  to  him. 

"  The  old  didapper,"  began  Bildad,  somewhat  ir- 
reverently, "  infested  this  here  house  about  twenty  year. 
He  never  allowed  nobody  to  come  nigh  him.  He'd  duck 
his  head  inside  and  slam  the  door  whenever  a  team  drove 
along.  There  was  spinning-wheels  up  in  his  loft,  all 
right.  He  used  to  buy  his  groceries  and  tobacco  at  Sam 
Tilly's  store,  on  the  Little  Muddy.  Last  August  he 
went  up  there  dressed  in  a  red  bedquilt,  and  told  Sam  he 
was  King  Solomon,  and  that  the  Queen  of  Sheba  was 
coming  to  visit  him.  He  fetched  along  all  the  money 
he  had  —  a  little  bag  full  of  silver  —  and  dropped  it  in 
Sam's  well.  *  She  won't  come,'  says  old  man  Redruth  to 
Sam,  '  if  she  knows  I've  got  any  money.' 

"  As  soon  as  folks  heard  he  had  that  sort  of  a  theory 
about  women  and  money  they  knowed  he  was  crazy ;  so 
they  sent  down  and  packed  him  to  the  foolish  asylum.'* 

"  Was  there  a  romance  in  his  life  that  drove  him  to 
a  solitary  existence?"  asked  one  of  the  passengers,  a 
young  man  who  had  an  Agency. 

"  No,"  said  Bildad,  "  not  that  I  ever  heard  spoke  of. 
Just  ordinary  trouble.  They  say  he  had  had  unfortu- 
nateness  in  the  way  of  love  derangements  with  a  young 
lady  when  he  was  young;  before  he  contracted  red  bed- 


The  Sphinx  Apple  211 

quilts  and  had  his  financial  conclusions  disqualified.  I 
never  heard  of  no  romance." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Judge  Menef  ee,  impressively ;  "  a 
case  of  unrequited  affection,  no  doubt." 

"  No,  sir,"  returned  Bildad,  "  not  at  all.  She  never 
married  him.  Marmaduke  Mulligan,  down  at  Paradise, 
seen  a  man  once  that  come  from  old  Redruth's  town.  He 
said  Redruth  was  a  fine  young  man,  but  when  you  kicked 
him  on  the  pocket  all  you  could  hear  jingle  was  a  cuff- 
fastener  and  a  bunch  of  keys.  He  was  engaged  to  this 
young  lady  —  Miss  Alice  —  something  was  her  name ; 
I've  forgot.  This  man  said  she  was  the  kind  of  a  girl 
you  like  to  have  reach  across  you  in  a  car  to  pay  the  fare. 
Well,  there  come  to  the  town  a  young  chap  all  affluent 
and  easy,  and  fixed  up  with  buggies  and  mining  stock 
and  leisure  time.  Although  she  was  a  staked  claim,  Miss 
Alice  and  the  new  entry  seemed  to  strike  a  mutual  kind 
of  a  clip.  They  had  calls  and  coincidences  of  going  to 
the  post  office  and  such  things  as  sometimes  make  a  girl 
send  back  the  engagement  ring  and  other  presents  — 
*  a  rift  within  the  loot,'  the  poetry  man  calls  it. 

"  One  day  folks  seen  Redruth  and  Miss  Alice  stand- 
ing talking  at  the  gate.  Then  he  lifts  his  hat  and  walks 
away,  and  that  was  the  last  anybody  in  that  town  seen  of 
him,  as  far  as  this  man  knew." 

"  What  about  the  young  lady  ?  "  asked  the  young 
man  who  had  an  Agency. 

"  Never  heard,"  answered  Bildad.  "  Right  there  is 
where  my  lode  of  information  turns  to  an  old  spavined 
crowbait,  and  folds  its  wings,  for  I've  pumped  it  dry." 


212  Heart  of  the  West 

"  A  very  sad  — "  began  Judge  Menefee,  but  his  re- 
mark was  curtailed  by  a  higher  authority. 

"  What  a  charming  story !  "  said  the  lady  passen- 
ger, in  flute-like  tones. 

A  little  silence  followed,  except  for  the  wind  and  the 
crackling  of  the  fire. 

The  men  were  seated  upon  the  floor,  having  slightly 
mitigated  its  inhospitable  surface  with  wraps  and  stray 
pieces  of  boards.  The  man  who  was  placing  Little 
Goliath  windmills  arose  and  walked  about  to  ease  his 
cramped  muscles. 

Suddenly  a  triumphant  shout  came  from  him.  He 
hurried  back  from  a  dusky  corner  of  the  room,  bear- 
ing aloft  something  in  his  hand.  It  was  an  apple  —  a 
large,  red-mottled,  firm  pippin,  pleasing  to  behold.  In 
a  paper  bag  on  a  high  shelf  in  that  corner  he  had  found 
it.  It  could  have  been  no  relic  of  the  lovewrecked  Red- 
ruth,  for  its  glorious  soundness  repudiated  the  theory 
that  it  had  lain  on  that  musty  shelf  since  August.  No 
doubt  some  recent  bivouackers,  lunching  in  the  deserted 
house,  had  left  it  there. 

Dunwoody  —  again  his  exploits  demand  for  him  the 
honours  of  nomenclature  —  flaunted  his  apple  in  the 
faces  of  his  fellow-mar ooners.  "  See  what  I  found,  Mrs. 
McFarland ! "  he  cried,  vaingloriously.  He  held  the 
apple  high  up  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  where  it  glowed  a 
still  richer  red.  The  lady  passenger  smiled  calmly  — 
always  calmly. 

"  What  a  charming  apple !  "  she  murmured,  clearly. 

For    a    brief    space    Judge    Menefee    felt    crushed, 


The  SpUnx  Apple  213 

humiliated,  relegated.  Second  place  galled  him.  Why 
had  this  blatant,  obtrusive,  unpolished  man  of  wind- 
mills been  selected  by  Fate  instead  of  himself  to  dis- 
cover the  sensational  apple?  He  could  have  made  of 
the  act  a  scene,  a  function,  a  setting  for  some  im- 
promptu, fanciful  discourse  or  piece  of  comedy  —  and 
have  retained  the  role  of  cynosure.  Actually,  the  lady 
passenger  was  regarding  this  ridiculous  Dunboddy  or 
Woodbundy  with  an  admiring  smile,  as  if  the  fellow  had 
performed  a  feat!  And  the  windmill  man  swelled  and 
gyrated  like  a  sample  of  his  own  goods,  puffed  up  with 
the  wind  that  ever  blows  from  the  chorus  land  toward 
the  domain  of  the  star. 

While  the  transported  Dunwoody,  with  his  Aladdin's 
apple,  was  receiving  the  fickle  attentions  of  all,  the  re- 
sourceful jurist  formed  a  plan  to  recover  his  own  laurels. 

With  his  courtliest  smile  upon  his  heavy  but  classic 
features,  Judge  Menefee  advanced,  and  took  the  apple, 
as  if  to  examine  it,  from  the  hand  of  Dunwoody.  In  his 
hand  it  became  Exhibit  A. 

"  A  fine  apple,"  he  said,  approvingly.  "  Really,  my 
dear  Mr.  Dudwindy,  you  have  eclipsed  all  of  us  as  a 
forager.  But  I  have  an  idea.  This  apple  shall  become 
an  emblem,  a  token,  a  symbol,  a  prize  bestowed  by  the 
mind  and  heart  of  beauty  upon  the  most  deserving." 

The  audience,  except  one,  applauded.  "  Good  on  the 
stump,  ain't  he  ?  "  commented  the  passenger  who  was  no- 
body in  particular  to  the  young  man  who  had  an 
Agency. 

The  unresponsive   one  was  the  windmill  man.     He 


214  Heart  of  the  West 

saw  himself  reduced  to  the  ranks.  Never  would  the 
thought  have  occurred  to  him  to  declare  his  apple  an 
emblem.  He  had  intended,  after  it  had  been  divided 
and  eaten,  to  create  diversion  by  sticking  the  seeds 
against  his  forehead  and  naming  them  for  young  ladies 
of  his  acquaintance.  One  he  was  going  to  name  Mrs. 
McFarland.  The  seed  that  fell  off  first  would  be  — 
but  'twas  too  late  now. 

"  The  apple,"  continued  Judge  Menefee,  charging 
his  jury,  "  in  modern  days  occupies,  though  unde- 
servedly, a  lowly  place  in  our  esteem.  Indeed,  it  is  so 
constantly  associated  with  the  culinary  and  the  com- 
mercial that  it  is  hardly  to  be  classed  among  the  polite 
fruits.  But  in  ancient  times  this  was  not  so.  Biblical, 
historical,  and  mythological  lore  abounds  with  evidences 
that  the  apple  was  the  aristocrat  of  fruits.  We  still 
say  '  the  apple  of  the  eye  '  when  we  wish  to  describe 
something  superlatively  precious.  We  find  in  Proverbs 
the  comparison  to  *  apples  of  silver.'  No  other  product 
of  tree  or  vine  has  been  so  utilised  in  figurative  speech. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  and  longed  for  the  '  apples  of  the 
Hesperides  '  ?  I  need  not  call  your  attention  to  the  most 
tremendous  and  significant  instance  of  the  apple's  an- 
cient prestige  when  its  consumption  by  our  first  parents 
occasioned  the  fall  of  man  from  his  state  of  goodness 
and  perfection." 

"  Apples  like  them,"  said  the  windmill  man,  linger- 
ing with  the  objective  article,  "  are  worth  $3.50  a  barrel 
in  the  Chicago  market." 

"  Now,  what  I  have  to  propose."  said  Judge  Men' 


The  Sphinx  Apple  215 

efee,  conceding  an  indulgent  smile  to  his  interrupter, 
"  is  this :  We  must  remain  here,  perforce,  until  morn- 
ing. We  have  wood  in  plenty  to  keep  us  warm.  Our 
next  need  is  to  entertain  ourselves  as  best  we  can,  in 
order  that  the  time  shall  not  pass  too  slowly.  I  propose 
that  we  place  this  apple  in  the  hands  of  Miss  Garland. 
It  is  no  longer  a  fruit,  but,  as  I  said,  a  prize,  in  award, 
representing  a  great  human  idea.  Miss  Garland,  her- 
self, shall  cease  to  be  an  individual  —  but  only  tem- 
porarily, I  am  happy  to  add  " —  (a  low  bow,  full  of  the 
old-time  grace).  "  She  shall  represent  her  sex;  she  shall 
be  the  embodiment,  the  epitome  of  womankind  —  the 
heart  and  brain,  I  may  say,  of  God's  masterpiece  of 
creation.  In  this  guise  she  shall  judge  and  decide  the 
question  which  follows: 

"  But  a  few  minutes  ago  our  friend,  Mr.  Rose,  fa- 
voured us  with  an  entertaining  but  fragmentary  sketch 
of  the  romance  in  the  life  of  the  former  possessor  of  this 
habitation.  The  few  facts  that  we  have  learned  seem 
to  me  to  open  up  a  fascinating  field  for  conjecture,  for 
the  study  of  human  hearts,  for  the  exercise  of  the  im- 
agination —  in  short,  for  story-telling.  Let  us  make  use 
of  the  opportunity.  Let  each  one  of  us  relate  his  own 
version  of  the  story  of  Redruth,  the  hermit,  and  his 
lady-love,  beginning  where  Mr.  Rose's  narrative  ends  — 
at  the  parting  of  the  lovers  at  the  gate.  This  much 
should  be  assumed  and  conceded  —  that  the  young  lady] 
was  not  necessarily  to  blame  for  Redruth's  becoming  a 
crazed  and  world-hating  hermit.  When  we  have  done, 
Miss  Garland  shall  render  the  JUDGMENT  OF  WOMAN. 


216  Heart  of  the  West 

As  the  Spirit  of  her  Sex  she  shall  decide  which  version 
of  the  story  best  and  most  truly  depicts  human  and  love 
interest,  and  most  faithfully  estimates  the  character  and 
acts  of  Redruth's  betrothed  according  to  the  feminine 
view.  The  apple  shall  be  bestowed  upon  him  who  is 
awarded  the  decision.  If  you  are  all  agreed,  we  shall  be 
pleased  to  hear  the  first  story  from  Mr.  Dinwiddie." 

The  last  sentence  captured  the  windmill  man.  He  was 
not  one  to  linger  in  the  dumps. 

"  That's  a  first-rate  scheme,  Judge,"  he  said,  heartily. 
"  Be  a  regular  short-story  vaudeville,  won't  it  ?  I  used 
to  be  correspondent  for  a  paper  in  Springfield,  and  when 
there  wasn't  any  news  I  faked  it.  Guess  I  can  do  my 
turn  all  right." 

"  I  think  the  idea  is  charming,"  said  the  lady  pas- 
senger, brightly.  "  It  will  be  almost  like  a  game." 

Judge  Menefee  stepped  forward  and  placed  the  apple 
in  her  hand  impressively. 

"  In  olden  days,"  he  said,  orotundly,  "  Paris  awarded 
the  golden  apple  to  the  most  beautiful." 

"  I  was  at  the  Exposition,"  remarked  the  windmill 
man,  now  cheerful  again,  "  but  I  never  heard  of  it. 
And  I  was  on  the  Midway,  too,  all  the  time  I  wasn't  at 
the  machinery  exhibit." 

"  But  now,"  continued  the  Judge,  "  the  fruit  shall 
translate  to  us  the  mystery  and  wisdom  of  the  femi- 
nine heart.  Take  the  apple,  Miss  Garland.  Hear  our 
modest  tales  of  romance,  and  then  award  the  prize  as 
you  may  deem  it  just." 

The  lady  passenger  smiled  sweetly.     The  apple  lay 


The  Sphinx  Apple  217 

in  her  lap  beneath  her  robes  and  wraps.  She  reclined 
against  her  protecting  bulwark,  brightly  and  cosily 
at  ease.  But  for  the  voices  and  the  wind  one  might 
have  listened  hopefully  to  hear  her  purr.  Someone  cast 
fresh  logs  upon  the  fire.  Judge  Menefee  nodded  suavely. 
"  Will  you  oblige  us  with  the  initial  story  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  windmill  man  sat  as  sits  a  Turk,  with  his  hat 
well  back  on  his  head  on  account  of  the  draughts. 

"  Well,"  he  began,  without  any  embarrassment,  "  this 
is  about  the  way  I  size  up  the  difficulty:  Of  course 
Redruth  was  jostled  a  good  deal  by  this  duck  who  had 
money  to  play  ball  with  who  tried  to  cut  him  out  of  his 
girl.  So  he  goes  around,  naturally,  and  asks  her  if  the 
game  is  still  square.  Well,  nobody  wants  a  guy  cut- 
ting in  with  buggies  and  gold  bonds  when  he's  got  an 
option  on  a  girl.  Well,  he  goes  around  to  see  her.  Well, 
maybe  he's  hot,  and  talks  like  the  proprietor,  and  for- 
gets that  an  engagement  ain't  always  a  lead-pipe  cinch. 
Well,  I  guess  that  makes  Alice  warm  under  the  lace  yoke. 
Well,  she  answers  back  sharp.  Well,  he  — " 

"  Say ! "  interrupted  the  passenger  who  was  nobody 
in  particular,  "  if  you  could  put  up  a  windmill  on  every 
one  of  them  '  wells  '  you're  using,  you'd  be  able  to  re- 
tire from  business,  wouldn't  you?" 

The  windmill  man  grinned  good-naturedly. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  no  Guy  de  Mopassong"  he  said,  cheer- 
fully. "  I'm  giving  it  to  you  in  straight  American. 
Well,  she  says  something  like  this :  *  Mr.  Gold  Bonds 
is  only  a  friend,'  says  she ;  '  but  he  takes  me  riding 
and  buys  me  theatre  tickets,  and  that's  what  you  never 


218  Heart  of  the  West 

do.  Ain't  I  to  never  have  any  pleasure  in  life  while 
I  can?  *  6  Pass  this  chatfield-chatfield  thing  along,'  says 
Redruth ;  — *  hand  out  the  mitt  to  the  Willie  with  creases 
in  it  or  you  don't  put  your  slippers  under  my  wardrobe.* 

"  Now  that  kind  of  train  orders  don't  go  with  a  girl 
that's  got  any  spirit.  I  bet  that  girl  loved  her  honey 
all  the  time.  Maybe  she  only  wanted,  as  girls  do,  to 
work  the  good  thing  for  a  little  fun  and  caramels  be- 
fore she  settled  down  to  patch  George's  other  pair,  and 
be  a  good  wife.  But  he  is  glued  to  the  high  horse,  and 
won't  come  down.  Well,  she  hands  him  back  the  ring, 
proper  enough;  and  George  goes  away  and  hits  the 
booze.  Yep.  That's  what  done  it.  I  bet  that  girl  fired 
the  cornucopia  with  the  fancy  vest  two  days  after  her 
steady  left.  George  boards  a  freight  and  checks  his 
bag  of  crackers  for  parts  unknown.  He  sticks  to  Old 
Booze  for  a  number  of  years ;  and  then  the  aniline  and 
aquafortis  gets  the  decision.  '  Me  for  the  hermit's  hut,' 
says  George,  '  and  the  long  whiskers,  and  the  buried  can 
of  money  that  isn't  there.' 

"  But  that  Alice,  in  my  mind,  was  on  the  level.  She 
never  married,  but  took  up  typewriting  as  soon  as  the 
wrinkles  began  to  show,  and  kept  a  cat  that  came  when 
you  said  '  weeny  —  weeny  —  weeny ! '  I  got  too  much 
faith  in  good  women  to  believe  they  throw  down  the 
fellow  they're  stuck  on  every  time  for  the  dough."  The 
windmill  man  ceased. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  lady  passenger,  slightly  moving 
upon  her  lowly  throne,  "  that  that  is  a  char  — " 

"  Oh,   Miss   Garland !  "   interposed   Judge   Menef  ee, 


The  Sphinx  Apple  219 

with  uplifted  hand,  "  I  beg  of  you,  no  comments !  It 
would  not  be  fair  to  the  other  contestants.  Mr.  —  er  — 
will  you  take  the  next  turn?  "  The  Judge  addressed 
the  young  man  who  had  the  Agency. 

"  My  version  of  the  romance,"  began  the  young  man, 
diffidently  clasping  his  hands,  "  would  be  this :  They 
did  not  quarrel  when  they  parted.  Mr.  Redruth  bade 
her  good-by  and  went  out  into  the  world  to  seek  his 
fortune.  He  knew  his  love  would  remain  true  to  him. 
He  scorned  the  thought  that  his  rival  could  make  an  im- 
pression upon  a  heart  so  fond  and  faithful.  I  would 
say  that  Mr.  Redruth  went  out  to  the  Rocky  Mountains 
in  Wyoming  to  seek  for  gold.  One  day  a  crew  of  pirates 
landed  and  captured  him  while  at  work,  and  — " 

"Hey!  what's  that?"  sharply  called  the  passenger 
who  was  nobody  in  particular  — "  a  crew  of  pirates 
landed  in  the  Rocky  Mountains!  Will  you  tell  us  how 
they  sailed  — " 

"  Landed  from  a  train,"  said  the  narrator,  quietly 
and  not  without  some  readiness.  "  They  kept  him  pris- 
oner in  a  cave  for  months,  and  then  they  took  him  hun- 
dreds of  miles  away  to  the  forests  of  Alaska.  There  a 
beautiful  Indian  girl  fell  in  love  with  him,  but  he  re- 
mained true  to  Alice.  After  another  year  of  wander- 
ing in  the  woods,  he  set  out  with  the  diamonds  — " 

"  What  diamonds  ? "  asked  the  unimportant  pas- 
senger, almost  with  acerbity. 

"  The  ones  the  saddlemaker  showed  him  in  the  Peru- 
vian temple,"  said  the  other,  somewhat  obscurely. 
"  When  he  reached  home,  Alice's  mother  led  him,  weep- 


220  Heart  of  the  West 

ing,  to  a  green  mound  under  a  willow  tree.  *  Her  heart 
was  broken  when  you  left,'  said  her  mother.  *  And  what 
of  my  rival  —  of  Chester  Mclntosh  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Red- 
ruth,  as  he  knelt  sadly  by  Alice's  grave.  *  When  he 
found  out,*  she  answered,  '  that  her  heart  was  yours, 
he  pined  away  day  by  day  until,  at  length,  he  started  a 
furniture  store  in  Grand  Rapids.  We  heard  lately  that 
he  was  bitten  to  death  by  an  infuriated  moose  near 
South  Bend,  Ind.,  where  he  had  gone  to  try  to  forget 
scenes  of  civilisation.'  With  which,  Mr.  Redruth  for- 
sook the  face  of  mankind  and  became  a  hermit,  as  we 
have  seen. 

"  My  story,"  concluded  the  young  man  with  an 
Agency,  "  may  lack  the  literary  quality ;  but  what  I 
want  it  to  show  is  that  the  young  lady  remained  true. 
She  cared  nothing  for  wealth  in  comparison  with  true 
affection.  I  admire  and  believe  in  the  fair  sex  too  much 
to  think  otherwise." 

The  narrator  ceased,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the 
corner  where  reclined  the  lady  passenger. 

Bildad  Rose  was  next  invited  by  Judge  Menefee  to 
contribute  his  story  in  the  contest  for  the  apple  of 
judgment.  The  stage-driver's  essay  was  brief. 

"  I'm  not  one  of  them  lobo  wolves,"  he  said,  "  who 
are  always  blaming  on  women  the  calamities  of  life. 
My  testimony  in  regards  to  the  fiction  story  you  ask 
for,  Judge,  will  be  about  as  follows:  What  ailed  Red- 
ruth was  pure  laziness.  If  he  had  up  and  slugged  this 
Percival  De  Lacey  that  tried  to  give  him  the  outside 
of  the  road,  and  had  kept  Alice  in  the  grape-vine  swing 


The  Sphinx  Apple  221 

with  the  blind-bridle  on,  all  would  have  been  well.  The 
woman  you  want  is  sure  worth  taking  pains  for. 

"  '  Send  for  me  if  you  want  me  again,'  says  Red- 
ruth,  and  hoists  his  Stetson,  and  walks  off.  He'd  have 
called  it  pride,  but  the  nixycomlogical  name  for  it  is 
laziness.  No  woman  don't  like  to  run  after  a  man.  '  Let 
him  come  back,  hisself ,'  says  the  girl ;  and  I'll  be  bound 
she  tells  the  boy  with  the  pay  ore  to  trot;  and  then 
spends  her  time  watching  out  the  window  for  the  man 
with  the  empty  pocket-book  and  the  tickly  moustache. 

"  I  reckon  Redruth  waits  about  nine  year  expect- 
ing her  to  send  him  a  note  by  a  nigger  asking  him  to 
forgive  her.  But  she  don't.  '  This  game  won't  work,' 
says  Redruth ;  '  then  so  won't  I.'  And  he  goes  in  the 
hermit  business  and  raises  whiskers.  Yes;  laziness  and 
whiskers  was  what  done  the  trick.  They  travel  together. 
You  ever  hear  of  a  man  with  long  whiskers  and  hair 
striking  a  bonanza?  No.  Look  at  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough  and  this  Standard  Oil  snoozer.  Have  they 
got  'em? 

"  Now,  this  Alice  didn't  never  marry,  I'll  bet  a  hoss. 
If  Redruth  had  married  somebody  else  she  might  have 
done  so,  too.  But  he  never  turns  up.  She  has  these  here 
things  they  call  fond  memories,  and  maybe  a  lock  of  hair 
and  a  corset  steel  that  he  broke,  treasured  up.  Them 
sort  of  articles  is  as  good  as  a  husband  to  some  women. 
I'd  say  she  played  out  a  lone  hand.  I  don't  blame  no 
woman  for  old  man  Redruth's  abandonment  of  barber 
shops  and  clean  shirts." 

Next  in  order  came  the  passenger  who  was  nobody  in 


222  Heart  of  the  West 

particular.     Nameless  to  us,  he  travels  the  road  from 
Paradise  to  Sunrise  City. 

But  him  you  shall  see,  if  the  firelight  be  not  too  dim, 
as  he  responds  to  the  Judge's  call. 

A  lean  form,  in  rusty-brown  clothing,  sitting  like  a 
frog,  his  arms  wrapped  about  his  legs,  his  chin  resting 
upon  his  knees.  Smooth,  oakum-coloured  hair;  long 
nose;  mouth  like  a  satyr's,  with  upturned,  tobacco- 
stained  corners.  An  eye  like  a  fish's ;  a  red  necktie  with 
a  horseshoe  pin.  He  began  with  a  rasping  chuckle  that 
gradually  formed  itself  into  words. 

"  Everybody  wrong  so  far.  What !  a  romance  with- 
out any  orange  blossoms !  Ho,  ho !  My  money  on  the 
lad  with  the  butterfly  tie  and  the  certified  checks  in 
his  trouserings. 

"  Take  'em  as  they  parted  at  the  gate  ?  All  right. 
*  You  never  loved  me,'  says  Redruth,  wildly,  '  or  you 
wouldn't  speak  to  a  man  who  can  buy  you  the  ice- 
cream.' *  I  hate  him,'  says  she.  *  I  loathe  his  side-bar 
buggy ;  I  despise  the  elegant  cream  bonbons  he  sends 
me  in  gilt  boxes  covered  with  real  lace;  I  feel  that  I 
could  stab  him  to  the  heart  when  he  presents  me  with  a 
solid  medallion  locket  with  turquoises  and  pearls  run- 
ning in  a  vine  around  the  border.  Away  with  him !  'Tis 
only  you  I  love.'  '  Back  to  the  cosey  corner ! '  says  Red- 
ruth. *  Was  I  bound  and  lettered  in  East  Aurora  ?  Get 
platonic,  if  you  please.  No  jack-pots  for  mine.  Go 
and  hate  your  friend  some  more.  For  me  the  Nickerson 
girl  on  Avenue  B,  and  gum,  and  a  trolley  ride.' 

Around  that  night  comes  John  W.  Croesus.    '  What  I 


The  Sphinx  Apple  223 

tears  ?  '  says  he,  arranging  his  pearl  pin.  '  You  have 
driven  my  lover  away,'  says  little  Alice,  sobbing :  *  I 
hate  the  sight  of  you.'  '  Marry  me,  then,'  says  John  W., 
lighting  a  Henry  Clay.  '  What ! '  she  cries,  indignantly, 
'  marry  you !  Never,'  she  says,  '  until  this  blows  over, 
and  I  can  do  some  shopping,  and  you  see  about  the 
licence.  There's  a  telephone  next  door  if  you  want  to 
call  up  the  county  clerk.'  " 

The  narrator  paused  to  give  vent  to  his  cynical 
chuckle. 

"  Did  they  marry?  "  he  continued.  "  Did  the  duck 
swallow  the  June-bug?  And  then  I  take  up  the  case 
of  Old  Boy  Redruth.  There's  where  you  are  all  wrong 
again,  according  to  my  theory.  What  turned  him  into 
a  hermit?  One  says  laziness;  one  says  remorse;  one 
says  booze.  I  say  women  did  it.  How  old  is  the  old 
man  now?"  asked  the  speaker,  turning  to  Bildad 
Rose. 

"  I  should  say  about  sixty-five." 

"  All  right.  He  conducted  his  hermit  shop  here  for 
twenty  years.  Say  he  was  twenty-five  when  he  took  off 
his  hat  at  the  gate.  That  leaves  twenty  years  for  him 
to  account  for,  or  else  be  docked.  Where  did  he  spend 
that  ten  and  two  fives?  I'll  give  you  my  idea.  Up  for 
bigamy.  Say  there  was  the  fat  blonde  in  Saint  Jo, 
and  the  panatela  brunette  at  Skillet  Ridge,  and  the  gold 
tooth  down  in  the  Kaw  valley.  Redruth  gets  his  cases 
mixed,  and  they  send  him  up  the  road.  He  gets  out 
after  they  are  through  with  him,  and  says :  '  Any  line 
for  me  except  the  crinoline.  The  hermit  trade  is  not 


224  Heart  of  the  West 

overdone,  and  the  stenographers  never  apply  to  'em  for 
work.  The  jolly  hermit's  life  for  me.  No  more  long 
hairs  in  the  comb  or  dill  pickles  lying  around  in  the 
cigar  tray.'  You  tell  me  they  pinched  old  Redruth  for 
the  noodle  villa  just  because  he  said  he  was  King  Solo- 
mon ?  Figs !  He  was  Solomon.  That's  all  of  mine.  I 
guess  it  don't  call  for  any  apples.  Enclosed  find  stamps. 
It  don't  sound  much  like  a  prize  winner." 

Respecting  the  stricture  laid  by  Judge  Menefee 
against  comments  upon  the  stories,  all  were  silent  when 
the  passenger  who  was  nobody  in  particular  had  con- 
cluded. And  then  the  ingenious  originator  of  the  con- 
test cleared  his  throat  to  begin  the  ultimate  entry  for 
the  prize.  Though  seated  with  small  comfort  upon  the 
floor,  you  might  search  in  vain  for  any  abatement  of 
dignity  in  Judge  Menefee.  The  now  diminishing  fire- 
light played  softly  upon  his  face,  as  clearly  chiselled 
as  a  Roman  emperor's  on  some  old  coin,  and  upon  the 
thick  waves  of  his  honourable  grey  hair. 

"  A  woman's  heart !  "  he  began,  in  even  but  thrill- 
ing tones  — "  who  can  hope  to  fathom  it  ?  The  ways 
and  desires  of  men  are  various.  I  think  that  the  hearts 
of  all  women  beat  with  the  same  rhythm,  and  to  the 
same  old  tune  of  love.  Love,  to  a  woman,  means  sacri- 
fice. If  she  be  worthy  of  the  name,  no  gold  or  rank 
will  outweigh  with  her  a  genuine  devotion. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  —  er  —  I  should  say,  my  friends, 
the  case  of  Redruth  versus  love  and  affection  has  been 
called.  Yet,  who  is  on  trial?  Not  Redruth,  for  he  has 
been  punished.  Not  those  immortal  passions  that  clothe 


The  Sphinx  Apple  225 

our  lives  with  the  joy  of  the  angels.  Then  who?  Each 
man  of  us  here  to-night  stands  at  the  bar  to  answer  if 
chivalry  or  darkness  inhabits  his  bosom.  To  judge  us 
sits  womankind  in  the  form  of  one  of  its  fairest  flowers. 
In  her  hand  she  holds  the  prize,  intrinsically  insignif- 
icant, but  worthy  of  our  noblest  efforts  to  win  as  a 
guerdon  of  approval  from  so  worthy  a  representative 
of  feminine  judgment  and  taste. 

"  In  taking  up  the  imaginary  history  of  Redruth  and 
the  fair  being  to  whom  he  gave  his  heart,  I  must,  in  the 
beginning,  raise  my  voice  against  the  unworthy  insinua- 
tion that  the  selfishness  or  perfidy  or  love  of  luxury  of 
any  woman  drove  him  to  renounce  the  world.  I  have  not 
found  woman  to  be  so  unspiritual  or  venal.  We  must 
seek  elsewhere,  among  man's  baser  nature  and  lower 
motives  for  the  cause. 

"  There  was,  in  all  probability,  a  lover's  quarrel  as 
they  stood  at  the  gate  on  that  memorable  day.  Tor- 
mented by  jealousy,  young  Redruth  vanished  from  his 
native  haunts.  But  had  he  just  cause  to  do  so?  There 
is  no  evidence  for  or  against.  But  there  is  something 
higher  than  evidence ;  there  is  the  grand,  eternal  be- 
lief in  woman's  goodness,  in  her  steadfastness  against 
temptation,  in  her  loyalty  even  in  the  face  of  proffered 
riches. 

"  I  picture  to  myself  the  rash  lover,  wandering,  self- 
tortured,  about  the  world.  I  picture  his  gradual  de- 
scent, and,  finally,  his  complete  despair  when  he  realises 
that  he  has  lost  the  most  precious  gift  life  had  to  offer 
him.  Then  his  withdrawal  from  the  world  of  sorrow  and 


226  Heart  of  the  West 

the   subsequent   derangement   of  his   faculties   becomes 
intelligible. 

"  But  what  do  I  see  on  the  other  hand  ?  A  lonely 
woman  fading  away  as  the  years  roll  by;  still  faith- 
ful, still  waiting,  still  watching  for  a  form  and  listen- 
ing for  a  step  that  will  come  no  more.  She  is  old  now. 
Her  hair  is  white  and  smoothly  banded.  Each  day  she 
sits  at  the  door  and  gazes  longingly  down  the  dusty 
road.  In  spirit  she  is  waiting  there  at  the  gate,  just 
as  he  left  her  —  his  forever,  but  not  here  below.  Yes; 
my  belief  in  woman  paints  that  picture  in  my  mind. 
Parted  forever  on  earth,  but  waiting!  She  in  anticipa- 
tion of  a  meeting  in  Elysium;  he  in  the  Slough  of 
Despond." 

"  I  thought  he  was  in  the  bughouse,"  said  the  pas- 
senger who  was  nobody  in  particular. 

Judge  Menef ee  stirred,  a  little  impatiently.  The  men 
sat,  drooping,  in  grotesque  attitudes.  The  wind  had 
abated  its  violence ;  coming  now  in  fitful,  virulent  puffs. 
The  fire  had  burned  to  a  mass  of  red  coals  which  shed 
but  a  dim  light  within  the  room.  The  lady  passenger 
in  her  cosey  nook  looked  to  be  but  a  formless  dark  bulk, 
crowned  by  a  mass  of  coiled,  sleek  hair  and  showing  but 
a  small  space  of  snowy  forehead  above  her  clinging 
boa. 

Judge  Menefee  got  stiffly  to  his  feet. 

"  And  now,  Miss  Garland,"  he  announced,  "  we  have 
concluded.  It  is  for  you  to  award  the  prize  to  the  one 
of  us  whose  argument  —  especially,  I  may  say,  in  re- 


The  Sphinx  Apple  227 

gard  to  his  estimate  of  true  womanhood  —  approaches 
nearest  to  your  own  conception." 

No  answer  came  from  the  lady  passenger.  Judge 
Menefee  bent  over  solicitously.  The  passenger  who  was 
nobody  in  particular  laughed  low  and  harshly.  The 
lady  was  sleeping  sweetly.  The  Judge  essayed  to  take 
her  hand  to  awaken  her.  In  doing  so  he  touched  a  small, 
cold,  round,  irregular  something  in  her  lap. 

"  She  has  eaten  the  apple,"  announced  Judge  Men- 
efee, in  awed  tones,  as  he  held  up  the  core  for  them,  to 
see. 


XIII 
THE  MISSING  CHORD 

I  STOPPED  overnight  at  the  sheep-ranch  of  Rush 
Kinney,  on  the  Sandy  Fork  of  the  Nueces.  Mr.  Kinney 
and  I  had  been  strangers  up  to  the  time  when  I  called 
"  Hallo !  "  at  his  hitching-rack ;  but  from  that  moment 
until  my  departure  on  the  next  morning  we  were,  accord- 
ing to  the  Texas  code,  undeniable  friends. 

After  supper  the  ranchman  and  I  lugged  our  chairs 
outside  the  two-room  house,  to  its  floorless  gallery 
roofed  with  chaparral  and  sacuista  grass.  With  the 
rear  legs  of  our  chairs  sinking  deep  into  the  hard- 
packed  loam,  each  of  us  reposed  against  an  elm  pillar 
of  the  structure  and  smoked  El  Toro  tobacco,  while 
we  wrangled  amicably  concerning  the  affairs  of  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

As  for  conveying  adequate  conception  of  the  en- 
gaging charm  of  that  prairie  evening,  despair  waits 
upon  it.  It  is  a  bold  chronicler  who  will  undertake  the 
description  of  a  Texas  night  in  the  early  spring.  AD 
inventory  must  suffice. 

The  ranch  rested  upon  the  summit  of  a  lenient  slope. 
The  ambient  prairie,  diversified  by  arroyos  and  murky 
patches  of  brush  and  pear,  lay  around  us  like  a  dark- 
ened bowl  at  the  bottom  of  which  we  reposed  as  dregs. 

22S 


The  Missing  Chord  229 

Like  a  turquoise  cover  the  sky  pinned  us  there.  The 
miraculous  air,  heady  with  ozone  and  made  memorably 
sweet  by  leagues  of  wild  flowerets,  gave  tang  and  savour 
to  the  breath.  In  the  sky  was  a  great,  round,  mellow 
searchlight  which  we  knew  to  be  no  moon,  but  the  dark 
lantern  of  summer,  who  came  to  hunt  northward  the 
cowering  spring.  In  the  nearest  corral  a  flock  of  sheep 
lay  silent  until  a  groundless  panic  would  send  a  squad  of 
them  huddling  together  with  a  drumming  rush.  For 
other  sounds  a  shrill  family  of  coyotes  yapped  beyond 
the  shearing-pen,  and  whippoorwills  twittered  in  the  long 
grass.  But  even  these  dissonances  hardly  rippled  the 
clear  torrent  of  the  mocking-birds'  notes  that  fell  from 
a  dozen  neighbouring  shrubs  and  trees.  It  would  not 
have  been  preposterous  for  one  to  tiptoe  and  essay  to 
touch  the  stars,  they  hung  so  bright  and  imminent. 

Mr.  Kinney's  wife,  a  young  and  capable  woman,  we 
had  left  in  the  house.  She  remained  to  busy  herself  with 
the  domestic  round  of  duties,  in  which  I  had  observed 
that  she  seemed  to  take  a  buoyant  and  contented  pride. 
In  one  room  we  had  supped.  Presently,  from  the  other, 
as  Kinney  and  I  sat  without,  there  burst  a  volume  of 
sudden  and  brilliant  music.  If  I  could  justly  estimate 
the  art  of  piano-playing,  the  construer  of  that  rollicking 
fantasia  had  creditably  mastered  the  secrets  of  the  key- 
board. A  piano,  and  one  so  well  played,  seemed  to  me  to 
be  an  unusual  thing  to  find  in  that  small  and  unpromising 
ranch-house.  I  must  have  looked  my  surprise  at  Rush 
Kinney,  for  he  laughed  in  his  soft,  Southern  way,  and 
nodded  at  me  through  the  moonlit  haze  of  our  cigarettes. 


230  Heart  of  the  West 

"You  don't  often  hear  as  agreeable  a  noise  as  that 
on  a  sheep-ranch,"  he  remarked;  "but  I  never  see  any 
reason  for  not  playing  up  to  the  arts  and  graces  just 
because  we  happen  to  live  out  in  the  brush.  It's  a  lone- 
some life  for  a  woman;  and  if  a  little  music  can  make  it 
any  better,  why  not  have  it?  That's  the  way  I  look  at 
it." 

"A  wise  and  generous  theory,"  I  assented.  "And 
Mrs.  Kinney  plays  well.  I  am  not  learned  in  the  science 
of  music,  but  I  should  call  her  an  uncommonly  good 
performer.  She  has  technic  and  more  than  ordinary 
power." 

The  moon  was  very  bright,  you  will  understand,  and 
I  saw  upon  Kinney 's  face  a  sort  of  amused  and  preg- 
nant expression,  as  though  there  were  things  behind  it 
that  might  be  expounded. 

"You  came  up  the  trail  from  the  Double-Elm  Fork," 
he  said  promisingly.  "As  you  crossed  it  you  must  have 
seen  an  old  deserted  jacal  to  your  left  under  a  comma 
mott." 

"I  did,"  said  I.  "There  was  a  drove  of  javcdis  root- 
ing around  it.  I  could  see  by  the  broken  corrals  that 
no  one  lived  there." 

"That's  where  this  music  proposition  started,"  said 
Kinney.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you  about  it  while  we 
smoke.  That's  where  old  Cal  Adams  lived.  He  had 
about  eight  hundred  graded  merinos  and  a  daughter  that 
was  solid  silk  and  as  handsome  as  a  new  stake-rope  on 
a  thirty-dollar  pony.  And  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
I  was  guilty  in  the  second  degree  of  hanging  around  old 


The  Missing  Chord  231 

Cal's  ranch  all  the  time  I  could  spare  away  from  lamb- 
ing and  shearing.  Miss  Marilla  was  her  name;  and  I 
had  figured  it  out  by  the  rule  of  two  that  she  was  des- 
tined to  become  the  chatelaine  and  lady  superior  of 
Rancho  Lomito,  belonging  to  R.  Kinney,  Esq.,  where 
you  are  now  a  welcome  and  honoured  guest. 

"  I  will  say  that  old  Cal  wasn't  distinguished  as  a 
sheepman.  He  was  a  little,  old  stoop-shouldered  hombre 
about  as  big  as  a  gun  scabbard,  with  scraggy  white 
whiskers,  and  condemned  to  the  continuous  use  of  lan- 
guage. Old  Cal  was  so  obscure  in  his  chosen  profession 
that  he  wasn't  even  hated  by  the  cowmen.  And  when  a 
sheepman  don't  get  eminent  enough  to  acquire  the  hos- 
tility of  the  cattlemen,  he  is  mighty  apt  to  die  unwept 
and  considerably  unsung. 

"  But  that  Marilla  girl  was  a  benefit  to  the  eye.  And 
she  was  the  most  elegant  kind  of  a  housekeeper.  I  was 
the  nearest  neighbour,  and  I  used  to  ride  over  to  the 
Double-Elm  anywhere  from  nine  to  sixteen  times  a  week 
with  fresh  butter  or  a  quarter  of  venison  or  a  sample  of 
new  sheep-dip  just  as  a  frivolous  excuse  to  see  Marilla. 
Marilla  and  me  got  to  be  extensively  inveigled  with  each 
other,  and  I  was  pretty  sure  I  was  going  to  get  my  rope 
around  her  neck  and  lead  her  over  to  the  Lomito.  Only 
she  was  so  everlastingly  permeated  with  filial  sentiments 
toward  old  Cal  that  I  never  could  get  her  to  talk  about 
serious  matters. 

"  You  never  saw  anybody  in  your  life  that  was  as  full 
of  knowledge  and  had  less  sense  than  old  Cal.  He  was 
advised  about  all  the  branches  of  information  contained 


232  Heart  of  the  West 

in  learning,  and  he  was  up  to  all  the  rudiments  of  doc- 
trines and  enlightenment.  You  couldn't  advance  him 
any  ideas  on  any  of  the  parts  of  speech  or  lines  of 
thought.  You  would  have  thought  he  was  a  professor 
of  the  weather  and  politics  and  chemistry  and  natural 
history  and  the  origin  of  derivations.  Any  subject  you 
brought  up  old  Cal  could  give  you  an  abundant  synopsis 
of  it  from  the  Greek  root  up  to  the  time  it  was  sacked 
and  on  the  market. 

"  One  day  just  after  the  fall  shearing  I  rides  over 
to  the  Double-Elm  with  a  lady's  magazine  about  fashions 
for  Marilla  and  a  scientific  paper  for  old  Cal. 

"  While  I  was  tying  my  pony  to  a  mesquite,  out  runs 
Marilla,  '  tickled  to  death  '  with  some  news  that  couldn't 
wait. 

"  *  Oh,  Rush,'  she  says,  all  flushed  up  with  esteem 
and  gratification,  *  what  do  you  think !  Dad's  going  to 
buy  me  a  piano.  Ain't  it  grand?  I  never  dreamed  I'd 
ever  have  one." 

"  '  It's  sure  joyful,'  says  I.  'I  always  admired  the 
agreeable  uproar  of  a  piano.  It'll  be  lots  of  company 
for  you.  That's  mighty  good  of  Uncle  Cal  to  do  that.' 

"  '  I'm  all  undecided,'  says  Marilla,  '  between  a  piano 
and  a  organ.  A  parlour  organ  is  nice.' 

"  '  Either  of  'em,'  says  I,  fi  is  first-class  for  mitigat- 
ing the  lack  of  noise  around  a  sheep-ranch.  For  my 
part,'  I  says,  c  I  shouldn't  like  anything  better  than 
to  ride  home  of  an  evening  and  listen  to  a  few  waltzes 
and  jigs,  with  somebody  about  your  size  sitting  on  the 
piano-stool  and  rounding  up  the  notes.* 


The  Missing  Chord  233 

"  *  Oh,  hush  about  that,'  says  Marilla,  *  and  go  on 
in  the  house.  Dad  hasn't  rode  out  to-day.  He's  not 
feeling  well.' 

"  Old  Cal  was  inside,  lying  on  a  cot.  He  had  a  pretty 
bad  cold  and  cough.  I  stayed  to  supper. 

"  *  Going  to  get  Marilla  a  piano,  I  hear,'  says  I  to  him. 

"  *  Why,  yes,  something  of  the  kind,  Rush,'  says  he. 
4  She's  been  hankering  for  music  for  a  long  spell ;  and 
I  allow  to  fix  her  up  with  something  in  that  line  right 
away.  The  sheep  sheared  six  pounds  all  round  this 
fall;  and  I'm  going  to  get  Marilla  an  instrument  if  it 
takes  the  price  of  the  whole  clip  to  do  it.' 

"  '  Star  waynoS  says  I.     *  The  little  girl  deserves  it.* 

66  6  I'm  going  to  San  Antone  on  the  last  load  of  wool,' 
says  Uncle  Cal,  *  and  select  an  instrument  for  her  my- 
self.' 

"  <  Wouldn't  it  be  better,'  I  suggests,  « to  take  Marilla 
along  and  let  her  pick  out  one  that  she  likes  ?  ' 

"  I  might  have  known  that  would  set  Uncle  Cal  go- 
ing. Of  course,  a  man  like  him,  that  knew  everything 
about  everything,  would  look  at  that  as  a  reflection  on 
his  attainments. 

" '  No,  sir,  it  wouldn't,'  says  he,  pulling  at  his  white 
whiskers.  *  There  ain't  a  better  judge  of  musical  in- 
struments in  the  whole  world  than  what  I  am.  I  had  an 
uncle,'  says  he,  '  that  was  a  partner  in  a  piano-factory, 
and  I've  seen  thousands  of  'em  put  together.  I  know 
all  about  musical  instruments  from  a  pipe-organ  to  a 
corn-stalk  fiddle.  There  ain't  a  man  lives,  sir,  that  can 
tell  me  any  news  about  any  instrument  that  has  to  be 


234  Heart  of  the  West 

pounded,  blowed,  scraped,  grinded,  picked,  or  wound 
with  a  key.' 

"  '  You  get  me  what  you  like,  dad,'  says  Marilla,  who 
couldn't  keep  her  feet  on  the  floor  from  joy.  '  Of  course 
you  know  what  to  select.  I'd  just  as  lief  it  was  a  piano 
or  a  organ  or  what.' 

"  *  I  see  in  St.  Louis  once  what  they  call  a  orchestrion,' 
says  Uncle  Cal,  '  that  I  judged  was  about  the  finest 
thing  in  the  way  of  music  ever  invented.  But  there 
ain't  room  in  this  house  for  one.  Anyway,  I  imagine 
they'd  cost  a  thousand  dollars.  I  reckon  something  in 
the  piano  line  would  suit  Marilla  the  best.  She  took 
lessons  in  that  respect  for  two  years  over  at  Birdstail. 
I  wouldn't  trust  the  buying  of  an  instrument  to  any- 
body else  but  myself.  I  reckon  if  I  hadn't  took  up 
sheep-raising  I'd  have  been  one  of  the  finest  composers 
or  piano-and-organ  manufacturers  in  the  world.' 

"  That  was  Uncle  Cal's  style.  But  I  never  lost  any 
patience  with  him,  on  account  of  his  thinking  so  much 
of  Marilla.  And  she  thought  just  as  much  of  him. 
He  sent  her  to  the  academy  over  at  Birdstail  for  two 
years  when  it  took  nearly  every  pound  of  wool  to  pay 
the  expenses. 

"  Along  about  Tuesday  Uncle  Cal  put  out  for  San 
Antone  on  the  last  wagonload  of  wool.  Manila's  uncle 
Ben,  who  lived  in  Birdstail,  come  over  and  stayed  at 
the  ranch  while  Uncle  Cal  was  gone. 

"  It  was  ninety  miles  to  San  Antone,  and  forty  to 
the  nearest  railroad-station,  so  Uncle  Cal  was  gone 
about  four  days.  I  was  over  at  the  Double-Elm  when 


The  Missing  Chord  235 

he  came  rolling  back  one  evening  about  sundown.  And 
up  there  in  the  wagon,  sure  enough,  was  a  piano  or  a 
organ  —  we  couldn't  tell  which  —  all  wrapped  up  in 
woolsacks,  with  a  wagon-sheet  tied  over  it  in  case  of  rain. 
And  out  skips  Marilla,  hollering,  *  Oh,  oh ! '  with  her 
eyes  shining  and  her  hair  a-ilying.  '  Dad  —  dad,'  she 
sings  out,  *  have  you  brought  it  —  have  you  brought 
it  ?  ' —  and  it  right  there  before  her  eyes,  as  women  will 
do. 

"  *  Finest  piano  in  San  Antone,'  says  Uncle  Cal,  wav- 
ing his  hand,  proud.  '  Genuine  rosewood,  and  the  finest, 
loudest  tone  you  ever  listened  to.  I  heard  the  storekeeper 
play  it,  and  I  took  it  on  the  spot  and  paid  cash  down.' 

"  Me  and  Ben  and  Uncle  Cal  and  a  Mexican  lifted 
it  out  of  the  wagon  and  carried  it  in  the  house  and  set 
it  in  a  corner.  It  was  one  of  them  upright  instruments, 
and  not  very  heavy  or  very  big. 

"  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  Uncle  Cal  flops  over  and 
says  he's  mighty  sick.  He's  got  a  high  fever,  and  he 
complains  of  his  lungs.  He  gets  into  bed,  while  me 
and  Ben  goes  out  to  unhitch  and  put  the  horses  in  the 
pasture,  and  Marilla  flies  around  to  get  Uncle  Cal  some- 
thing hot  to  drink.  But  first  she  puts  both  arms  on  that 
piano  and  hugs  it  with  a  soft  kind  of  a  smile,  like  you 
see  kids  doing  with  their  Christmas  toys. 

"  When  I  came  in  from  the  pasture,  Marilla  was  in 
the  room  where  the  piano  was.  I  could  see  by  the  strings 
and  woolsacks  on  the  floor  that  she  had  had  it  unwrapped. 
But  now  she  was  tying  the  wagon-sheet  over  it  again, 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  solemn,  whitish  look  on  her  face* 


236  Heart  of  the  West 

"  *  Ain't  wrapping  up  the  music  again,  are  you, 
Marilla?  '  I  asks.  '  What's  the  matter  with  just  a  couple 
of  tunes  for  to  see  how  she  goes  under  the  saddle?  ' 

"  '  Not  to-night,  Rush,'  says  she.  *  I  don't  want  to 
play  any  to-night.  Dad's  too  sick.  Just  think,  Rush, 
he  paid  three  hundred  dollars  for  it  —  nearly  a  third 
of  what  the  wool-clip  brought ! ' 

"  '  Well,  it  ain't  anyways  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
a  third  of  what  you  are  worth,'  I  told  her.  '  And  I  don't 
think  Uncle  Cal  is  too  sick  to  hear  a  little  agitation  of 
the  piano-keys  just  to  christen  the  machine. 

"  '  Not  to-night,  Rush,'  says  Marilla,  in  a  way  that 
she  had  when  she  wanted  to  settle  things. 

"  But  it  seems  that  Uncle  Cal  was  plenty  sick,  after 
all.  He  got  so  bad  that  Ben  saddled  up  and  rode  over 
to  Birdstail  for  Doc  Simpson.  I  stayed  around  to  see 
if  I'd  be  needed  for  anything. 

"  When  Uncle  Cal's  pain  let  up  on  him  a  little  he 
called  Marilla  and  says  to  her :  '  Did  you  look  at  your 
instrument,  honey  ?  And  do  you  like  it  ?  ' 

"  '  It's  lovely,  dad,'  says  she,  leaning  down  by  his 
pillow ;  *  I  never  saw  one  so  pretty.  How  dear  and 
good  it  was  of  you  to  buy  it  for  me ! ' 

"  '  I  haven't  heard  you  play  on  it  any  yet,'  says 
Uncle  Cal ;  '  and  I've  been  listening.  My  side  don't  hurt 
quite  so  bad  now  —  won't  you  play  a  piece,  Marilla  ?  9 

"  But  no ;  she  puts  Uncle  Cal  off  and  soothes  him 
down  like  you've  seen  women  do  with  a  kid.  It  seems 
she's  made  up  her  mind  not  to  touch  that  piano  at 
present. 


The  Missing  Chord  237 

"When  Doc  Simpson  comes  over  he  tells  us  that 
Uncle  Cal  has  pneumonia  the  worst  kind;  and  as  the 
old  man  was  past  sixty  and  nearly  on  the  lift  anyhow, 
the  odds  was  against  his  walking  on  grass  any  more. 

"  On  the  fourth  day  of  his  sickness  he  calls  for 
Marilla  again  and  wants  to  talk  piano.  Doc  Simpson 
was  there,  and  so  was  Ben  and  Mrs.  Ben,  trying  to  do 
all  they  could. 

"  *  I'd  have  made  a  wonderful  success  in  anything  con- 
nected with  music,'  says  Uncle  Cal.  *  I  got  the  finest 
instrument  for  the  money  in  San  Antone.  Ain't  that 
piano  all  right  in  every  respect,  Marilla  ?  ' 

"  '  It's  just  perfect,  dad,'  says  she.  '  It's  got  the 
finest  tone  I  ever  heard.  But  don't  you  think  you  could 
sleep  a  little  while  now,  dad  ?  ' 

"  <  No,  I  don't,'  says  Uncle  Cal.  <  I  want  to  hear 
that  piano.  I  don't  believe  you've  even  tried  it  yet. 
I  went  all  the  way  to  San  Antone  and  picked  it  out 
for  you  myself.  It  took  a  third  of  the  fall  clip  to  buy 
it ;  but  I  don't  mind  that  if  it  makes  my  good  girl  hap- 
pier. Won't  you  play  a  little  bit  for  dad,  Marilla  ?  ' 

"  Doc  Simpson  beckoned  Marilla  to  one  side  and 
recommended  her  to  do  what  Uncle  Cal  wanted,  so  it 
would  get  him  quieted.  And  her  uncle  Ben  and  his 
wife  asked  her,  too. 

"  *  Why  not  hit  out  a  tune  or  two  with  the  soft  pedal 
on  ?  '  I  asks  Marilla.  *  Uncle  Cal  has  begged  you  so 
often.  It  would  please  him  a  good  deal  to  hear  you 
touch  up  the  piano  he's  bought  for  you.  Don't  you 
think  you  might?  ' 


238  Heart  of  the  West 

"  But  Marilla  stands  there  with  big  tears  rolling  down 
from  her  eyes  and  says  nothing.  And  then  she  runs 
over  and  slips  her  arm  under  Uncle  Cal's  neck  and  hugs 
him  tight. 

" '  Why,  last  night,  dad,'  we  heard  her  say,  '  I 
played  ever  so  much.  Honest  —  I  have  been  playing 
it.  And  it's  such  a  splendid  instrument,  you  don't  know 
how  I  love  it.  Last  night  I  played  "  Bonnie  Dundee  " 
and  the  "  Anvil  Polka  "  and  the  "  Blue  Danube  " —  and 
lots  of  pieces.  You  must  surely  have  heard  me  play- 
ing a  little,  didn't  you,  dad?  I  didn't  like  to  play  loud 
when  you  was  so  sick.' 

"  '  Well,  well,'  says  Uncle  Cal,  '  maybe  I  did.  Maybe 
I  did  and  forgot  about  it.  My  head  is  a  little  cranky 
at  times.  I  heard  the  man  in  the  store  play  it  fine.  I'm 
mighty  glad  you  like  it,  Marilla.  Yes,  I  believe  I  could 
go  to  sleep  a  while  if  you'll  stay  right  beside  me  till  I  do.' 

"  There  was  where  Marilla  had  me  guessing.  Much 
as  she  thought  of  that  old  man,  she  wouldn't  strike  a 
note  on  that  piano  that  he'd  bought  her.  I  couldn't 
imagine  why  she  told  him  she'd  been  playing  it,  for 
the  wagon-sheet  hadn't  ever  been  off  of  it  since  she  put 
it  back  on  the  same  day  it  come.  I  knew  she  could  play 
a  little  anyhow,  for  I'd  once  heard  her  snatch  some  pretty 
fair  dance-music  out  of  an  old  piano  at  the  Charco 
Largo  Ranch. 

"  Well,  in  about  a  week  the  pneumonia  got  the  best 
of  Uncle  Cal.  They  had  the  funeral  over  at  Birds- 
tail,  and  all  of  us  went  over.  I  brought  Marilla  back 


The  Missing  Chord  239 

home  in  my  blackboard.  Her  uncle  Ben  and  his  wife 
were  going  to  stay  there  a  few  days  with  her. 

"  That  night  Marilla  takes  me  in  the  room  where  the 
piano  was,  while  the  others  were  out  on  the  gallery. 

"  *  Come  here,  Rush,'  says  she ;  c  I  want  you  to  see 
this  now.' 

"  She  unties  the  rope,  and  drags  off  the  wagon-sheet. 

"  If  you  ever  rode  a  saddle  without  a  horse,  or  fired 
off  a  gun  that  wasn't  loaded,  or  took  a  drink  out  of  an 
empty  bottle,  why,  then  you  might  have  been  able  to 
scare  an  opera  or  two  out  of  the  instrument  Uncle  Cal 
had  bought. 

"  Instead  of  a  piano,  it  was  one  of  them  machines 
they've  invented  to  play  the  piano  with.  By  itself  it 
was  about  as  musical  as  the  holes  of  a  flute  without  the 
flute. 

"  And  that  was  the  piano  that  Uncle  Cal  had  selected ; 
and  standing  by  it  was  the  good,  fine,  all-wool  girl  that 
never  let  him  know  it. 

"  And  what  you  heard  playing  a  while  ago,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Kinney,  "  was  that  same  deputy-piano  ma- 
chine; only  just  at  present  it's  shoved  up  against  a 
six-hundred-dollar  piano  that  I  bought  for  Marilla  as 
soon  as  we  was  married." 


XIV 
A  CALL  LOAN 

IN  those  days  the  cattlemen  were  the  anointed.  They 
were  the  grandees  of  the  grass,  kings  of  the  kine,  lords 
of  the  lea,  barons  of  beef  and  bone.  They  might  have 
ridden  in  golden  chariots  had  their  tastes  so  inclined. 
The  cattleman  was  caught  in  a  stampede  of  dollars.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  more  money  than  was  decent. 
But  when  he  had  bought  a  watch  with  precious  stones 
set  in  the  case  so  large  that  they  hurt  his  ribs,  and  a 
California  saddle  with  silver  nails  and  Angora  skin 
suaderos,  and  ordered  everybody  up  to  the  bar  for 
whisky  —  what  else  was  there  for  him  to  spend  money 
for? 

Not  so  circumscribed  in  expedient  for  the  reduction 
of  surplus  wealth  were  those  lairds  of  the  lariat  who 
had  womenfolk  to  their  name.  In  the  breast  of  the 
rib-sprung  sex  the  genius  of  purse  lightening  may 
slumber  through  years  of  inopportunity,  but  never,  iny 
brothers,  does  it  become  extinct. 

So,  out  of  the  chaparral  came  Long  Bill  Longley 
from  the  Bar  Circle  Branch  on  the  Frio  —  a  wife-driven 
man  —  to  taste  the  urban  joys  of  success.  Something 
like  half  a  million  dollars  he  had,  with  an  income  steadily 
increasing. 

*40 


A  Call  Loan  241 

Long  Bill  was  a  graduate  of  the  camp  and  trail. 
Luck  and  thrift,  a  cool  head,  and  a  telescopic  eye  for 
mavericks  had  raised  him  from  cowboy  to  be  a  cowman. 
Then  came  the  boom  in  cattle,  and  Fortune,  stepping 
gingerly  among  the  cactus  thorns,  came  and  emptied 
her  cornucopia  at  the  doorstep  of  the  ranch. 

In  the  little  frontier  city  of  Chaparosa,  Longley  built 
a  costly  residence.  Here  he  became  a  captive,  bound 
to  the  chariot  of  social  existence.  He  was  doomed  to 
become  a  leading  citizen.  He  struggled  for  a  time  like 
a  mustang  in  his  first  corral,  and  then  he  hung  up  his 
quirt  and  spurs.  Time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  He 
organised  the  First  National  Bank  of  Chaparosa,  and 
was  elected  its  president. 

One  day  a  dyspeptic  man,  wearing  double-magnify- 
ing glasses,  inserted  an  official-looking  card  between 
the  bars  of  the  cashier's  window  of  the  First  National 
Bank.  Five  minutes  later  the  bank  force  was  dancing 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  a  national  bank  examiner. 

This  examiner,  Mr.  J.  Edgar  Todd,  proved  to  be  a 
thorough  one. 

At  the  end  of  it  all  the  examiner  put  on  his  hat, 
and  called  the  president,  Mr.  William  R.  Longley,  into 
the  private  office. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  find  things  ?  "  asked  Longley, 
in  his  slow,  deep  tones.  "  Any  brands  in  the  round- 
up you  didn't  like  the  looks  of?  " 

"  The  bank  checks  up  all  right,  Mr.  Longley,"  said 
Todd ;  "  and  I  find  your  loans  in  very  good  shape  — • 
with  one  exception.  You  are  carrying  one  very  bad 


242  Heart  of  the  West 

bit  of  paper  —  one  that  is  so  bad  that  I  have  been 
thinking  that  you  surely  do  not  realise  the  serious  posi- 
tion it  places  you  in.  I  refer  to  a  call  loan  of  $10,000 
made  to  Thomas  Merwin.  Not  only  is  the  amount  in 
excess  of  the  maximum  sum  the  bank  can  loan  any 
individual  legally,  but  it  is  absolutely  without  indorse- 
ment or  security.  Thus  you  have  doubly  violated  the 
national  banking  laws,  and  have  laid  yourself  open  to 
criminal  prosecution  by  the  Government.  A  report  of 
the  matter  to  the  Comptroller  of  the  Currency  —  which 
I  am  bound  to  make  —  would,  I  am  sure,  result  in  the 
matter  being  turned  over  to  the  Department  of  Justice 
for  action.  You  see  what  a  serious  thing  it  is." 

Bill  Longley  was  leaning  his  lengthy,  slowly  moving 
frame  back  in  his  swivel  chair.  His  hands  were  clasped 
behind  his  head,  and  he  turned  a  little  to  look  the  ex- 
aminer in  the  face.  The  examiner  was  surprised  to 
see  a  smile  creep  about  the  rugged  mouth  of  the  banker, 
and  a  kindly  twinkle  in  his  light-blue  eyes.  If  he  saw 
the  seriousness  of  the  affair,  it  did  not  show  in  his 
countenance. 

66  Of  course,  you  don't  know  Tom  Merwin,"  said 
Longley,  almost  genially.  "  Yes,  I  know  about  that 
loan.  It  hasn't  any  security  except  Tom  Merwin's 
word.  Somehow,  I've  always  found  that  when  a  man's 
word  is  good  it's  the  best  security  there  is.  Oh,  yes, 
I  know  the  Government  doesn't  think  so.  I  guess  I'll 
see  Tom  about  that  note." 

Mr.    Todd's    dyspepsia    seemed    to    grow    suddenly 


A  Call  Loan  243 

worse.  He  looked  at  the  chaparral  banker  through  his 
double-magnifying  glasses  in  amazement. 

"  You  see,"  said  Longley,  easily  explaining  the  thing 
away,  "  Tom  heard  of  2000  head  of  two-year-olds  down 
near  Rocky  Ford  on  the  Rio  Grande  that  could  be  had 
for  $8  a  head.  I  reckon  'twas  one  of  old  Leandro  Gar- 
cia's  outfits  that  he  had  smuggled  over,  and  he  wanted  to 
make  a  quick  turn  on  'em.  Those  cattle  are  worth  $15 
on  the  hoof  in  Kansas  City.  Tom  knew  it  and  I  knew  it. 
He  had  $6000,  and  I  let  him  have  the  $10,000  to  make 
the  deal  with.  His  brother  Ed  took  'em  on  to  market 
three  weeks  ago.  He  ought  to  be  back  'most  any  day 
now  with  the  money.  When  he  comes  Tom'll  pay  that 
note." 

The  bank  examiner  was  shocked.  It  was,  perhaps, 
his  duty  to  step  out  to  the  telegraph  office  and  wire  the 
situation  to  the  Comptroller.  But  he  did  not.  He 
talked  pointedly  and  effectively  to  Longley  for  three 
minutes.  He  succeeded  in  making  the  banker  under- 
stand that  he  stood  upon  the  border  of  a  catastrophe. 
And  then  he  offered  a  tiny  loophole  of  escape. 

"  I  am  going  to  Hilldale's  to-night,"  he  told  Long- 
ley,  "  to  examine  a  bank  there.  I  will  pass  through 
Chaparosa  on  my  way  back.  At  twelve  o'clock  to- 
morrow I  shall  call  at  this  bank.  If  this  loan  has  been 
cleared  out  of  the  way  by  that  time  it  will  not  be 
mentioned  in  my  report.  If  not  —  I  will  have  to  do 
my  duty." 

With  that  the  examiner  bowed  and  departed. 


244  Heart  of  the  West 

The  President  of  the  First  National  lounged  in  his 
chair  half  an  hour  longer,  and  then  he  lit  a  mild  cigar, 
and  went  over  to  Tom  Merwin's  house.  Merwin,  a 
ranchman  in  brown  duck,  with  a  contemplative  eye,  sat 
with  his  feet  upon  a  table,  plaiting  a  rawhide  quirt. 

"  Tom,"  said  Longley,  leaning  against  the  table, 
"  you  heard  anything  from  Ed  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Merwin,  continuing  his  plaiting.  "  I 
guess  Ed'll  be  along  back  now  in  a  few  days." 

"  There  was  a  bank  examiner,"  said  Longley,  "  nos- 
ing around  our  place  to-day,  and  he  bucked  a  sight 
about  that  note  of  yours.  You  know  I  know  it's  all 
right,  but  the  thing  is  against  the  banking  laws.  I  was 
pretty  sure  you'd  have  paid  it  off  before  the  bank  was 
examined  again,  but  the  son-of-a-gun  slipped  in  on  us, 
Tom.  Now,  I'm  short  of  cash  myself  just  now,  or  I'd 
let  you  have  the  money  to  take  it  up  with.  I've  got  till 
twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  and  then  I've  got  to  show  the 
cash  in  place  of  that  note  or — " 

"  Or  what,  Bill?  "  asked  Merwin,  as  Longley  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  means  be  jumped  on  with  both 
of  Uncle  Sam's  feet." 

"  I'll  try  to  raise  the  money  for  you  on  time,"  said 
Merwin,  interested  in  his  plaiting. 

"  All  right,  Tom,"  concluded  Longley,  as  he  turned 
toward  the  door;  "  I  knew  you  would  if  you  could." 

Merwin  threw  down  his  whip  and  went  to  the  only 
other  bank  in  town,  a  private  one,  run  by  Cooper  & 
Craig. 


A  Call  Loan  245 

"  Cooper,"  he  said,  to  the  partner  by  that  name,  "  I've 
got  to  have  $10,000  to-day  or  to-morrow.  I've  got  a 
house  and  lot  here  that's  worth  about  $6000  and  that's 
all  the  actual  collateral.  But  I've  got  a  cattle  deal  on 
that's  sure  to  bring  me  in  more  than  that  much  profit 
within  a  few  days." 

Cooper  began  to  cough. 

"  Now,  for  God's  sake  don't  say  no,"  said  Merwin. 
"  I  owe  that  much  money  on  a  call  loan.  It's  been 
called,  and  the  man  that  called  it  is  a  man  I've  laid  on 
the  same  blanket  with  in  cow-canlps  and  ranger-camps 
for  ten  years.  He  can  call  anything  I've  got.  He 
can  call  the  blood  out  of  my  veins  and  it'll  come.  He's 
got  to  have  the  money.  He's  in  a  devil  of  a  —  Well, 
he  needs  the  money,  and  I've  got  to  get  it  for  him.  You 
know  my  word's  good,  Cooper." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  assented  Cooper  urbanely,  "  but 
I've  a  partner,  you  know.  I'm  not  free  in  making 
loans.  And  even  if  you  had  the  best  security  in  your 
hands,  Merwin,  we  couldn't  accommodate  you  in  less 
than  a  week.  We're  just  making  a  shipment  of  $15,- 
000  to  Myer  Brothers  in  Rockdell,  to  buy  cotton  with. 
It  goes  down  on  the  narrow  gauge  to-night.  That 
leaves  our  cash  quite  short  at  present.  Sorry  we  can't 
arrange  it  for  you." 

Merwin  went  back  to  his  little  bare  office  and  plaited 
at  his  quirt  again.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon he  went  to  the  First  National  and  leaned  over  the 
railing  of  Longley's  desk. 


246  Heart  of  the  West 

"  I'll  try  to  get  that  money  for  you  to-night  —  I 
mean  to-morrow,  Bill." 

"  All  right,  Tom,"  said  Longley  quietly. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  Tom  Merwin  stepped 
cautiously  out  of  the  small  frame  house  in  which  he 
lived.  It  was  near  the  edge  of  the  little  town,  and  few 
citizens  were  in  the  neighbourhood  at  that  hour.  Mer- 
win wore  two  six-shooters  in  a  belt  and  a  slouch  hat.  He 
moved  swiftly  down  a  lonely  street,  and  then  followed  the 
sandy  road  that  ran  parallel  to  the  narrow-gauge  track 
until  he  reached  the  water-tank,  two  miles  below  the 
town.  There  Tom  Merwin  stopped,  tied  a  black  silk 
handkerchief  about  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  and 
pulled  his  hat  down  low. 

In  ten  minutes  the  night  train  for  Rockdell  pulled  up 
at  the  tank,  having  come  from  Chaparosa. 

With  a  gun  in  each  hand  Merwin  raised  himself  from 
behind  a  clump  of  chaparral  and  started  for  the  engine. 
But  before  he  had  taken  three  steps,  two  long,  strong 
arms  clasped  him  from  behind,  and  he  was  lifted  from 
his  feet  and  thrown,  face  downward  upon  the  grass. 
There  was  a  heavy  knee  pressing  against  his  back,  and 
an  iron  hand  grasping  each  of  his  wrists.  He  was  held 
thus,  like  a  child,  until  the  engine  had  taken  water,  and 
until  the  train  had  moved,  with  accelerating  speed,  out 
of  sight.  Then  he  was  released,  and  rose  to  his  feet  to 
face  Bill  Longley. 

"  The  case  never  needed  to  be  fixed  up  this  way, 
Tom,"  said  Longley.  "  I  saw  Cooper  this  evening, 
and  he  told  me  what  you  and  him  talked  about.  Then 


A  Call  Loan  247 

I  went  down  to  your  house  to-night  and  saw  you  come 
out  with  your  guns  on,  and  I  followed  you.  Let's  go 
back,  Tom." 

They  walked  away  together,  side  by  side. 

"  'Twas  the  only  chance  I  saw,"  said  Merwin  pres- 
ently. "  You  called  your  loan,  and  I  tried  to  answer 
you.  Now,  what'll  you  do,  Bill,  if  they  sock  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  have  done  if  they'd  socked  it  to 
you?  "  was  the  answer  Longley  made. 

"  I  never  thought  I'd  lay  in  a  bush  to  stick  up  a 
train,"  remarked  Merwin ;  "  but  a  call  loan's  different. 
A  call's  a  call  with  me.  We've  got  twelve  hours  yet, 
Bill,  before  this  spy  jumps  onto  you.  We've  got  to 
raise  them  spondulicks  somehow.  Maybe  we  can  — 
Great  Sam  Houston !  do  you  hear  that  ?  " 

Merwin  broke  into  a  run,  and  Longley  kept  with  him, 
hearing  only  a  rather  pleasing  whistle  somewhere  in  the 
night  rendering  the  lugubrious  air  of  "  The  Cowboy's 
Lament." 

"  It's  the  only  tune  he  knows,"  shouted  Merwin,  as 
he  ran.  "  I'll  bet  — " 

They  were  at  the  door  of  Merwin's  house.  He  kicked 
it  open  and  fell  over  an  old  valise  lying  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  A  sunburned,  firm-jawed  youth,  stained 
by  travel,  lay  upon  the  bed  puffing  at  a  brown  cigarette. 

"  What's  the  word,  Ed?  "  gasped  Merwin. 

"  So,  so,"  drawled  that  capable  youngster.  "  Just 
got  in  on  the  9 :30.  Sold  the  bunch  for  fifteen,  straight. 
Now,  buddy,  you  want  to  quit  kickin'  a  valise  around 
that's  got  $29,000  in  greenbacks  in  its  in'ards." 


XV 
THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  PUMA 

1  HERE  had  to  be  a  king  and  queen,  of  course.  The 
king  was  a  terrible  old  man  who  wore  six-shooters  and 
spurs,  and  shouted  in  such  a  tremendous  voice  that  the 
rattlers  on  the  prairie  would  run  into  their  holes  under 
the  prickly  pear.  Before  there  was  a  royal  family  they 
called  the  man  "  Whispering  Ben."  When  he  came  to 
own  50,000  acres  of  land  and  more  cattle  than  he  could 
count,  they  called  him  O'Donnell  "  the  Cattle  King." 

The  queen  had  been  a  Mexican  girl  from  Laredo. 
She  made  a  good,  mild,  Colorado-claro  wife,  and  even 
succeeded  in  teaching  Ben  to  modify  his  voice  sufficiently 
while  in  the  house  to  keep  the  dishes  from  being  broken. 
When  Ben  got  to  be  king  she  would  sit  on  the  gallery 
of  Espinosa  Ranch  and  weave  rush  mats.  When  wealth 
became  so  irresistible  and  oppressive  that  upholstered 
chairs  and  a  centre  table  were  brought  down  from  San 
Antone  in  the  wagons,  she  bowed  her  smooth,  dark 
head,  and  shared  the  fate  of  the  Danae. 

To  avoid  lese-majeste  you  have  been  presented  first 
to  the  king  and  queen.  They  do  not  enter  the  story, 
which  might  be  called  "  The  Chronicle  of  the  Princess, 
the  Happy  Thought,  and  the  Lion  that  Bungled  his 

Job." 

248 


The  Princess  and  the  Puma          249 

Josefa  O'Donnell  was  the  surviving  daughter,  the 
princess.  From  her  mother  she  inherited  warmth  of 
nature  and  a  dusky,  semi-tropic  beauty.  From  Ben 
O'Donnell  the  royal  she  acquired  a  store  of  intrepidity, 
common  sense,  and  the  faculty  of  ruling.  The  combi- 
nation was  one  worth  going  miles  to  see.  Josefa  while 
riding  her  pony  at  a  gallop  could  put  five  out  of  six 
bullets  through  a  tomato-can  swinging  at  the  end  of  a 
string.  She  could  play  for  hours  with  a  white  kitten 
she  owned,  dressing  it  in  all  manner  of  absurd  clothes. 
Scorning  a  pencil,  she  could  tell  you  out  of  her  head 
what  1545  two-year-olds  would  bring  on  the  hoof,  at 
$8.50  per  head.  Roughly  speaking,  the  Espinosa 
Ranch  is  forty  miles  long  and  thirty  broad  —  but  mostly 
leased  land.  Josefa,  on  her  pony,  had  prospected  over 
every  mile  of  it.  Every  cow-puncher  on  the  range 
knew  her  by  sight  and  was  a  loyal  vassal.  Ripley 
Givens,  foreman  of  one  of  the  Espinosa  outfits,  saw  her 
one  day,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  form  a  royal  matri- 
monial alliance.  Presumptuous?  No.  In  those  days 
in  the  Nueces  country  a  man  was  a  man.  And,  after 
all,  the  title  of  cattle  king  does  not  presuppose  blood 
royal.  Often  it  only  signifies  that  its  owner  wears  the 
crown  in  token  of  his  magnificent  qualities  in  the  art  of 
cattle  stealing. 

One  day  Ripley  Givens  rode  over  to  the  Double  Elm 
Ranch  to  inquire  about  a  bunch  of  strayed  yearlings. 
He  was  late  in  setting  out  on  his  return  trip,  and  it  was 
sundown  when  he  struck  the  White  Horse  Crossing  of 
the  Nueces.  From  there  to  his  own  camp  it  was  sixteen 


250  Heart  of  the  West 

miles.  To  the  Espinosa  ranch  house  it  was  twelve. 
Givens  was  tired.  He  decided  to  pass  the  night  at  the 
Crossing. 

There  was  a  fine  water  hole  in  the  river-bed.  The 
banks  were  thickly  covered  with  great  trees,  under- 
grown  with  brush.  Back  from  the  water  hole  fifty  yards 
was  a  stretch  of  curly  mesquite  grass  —  supper  for  his 
horse  and  bed  for  himself.  Givens  staked  his  horse, 
and  spread  out  his  saddle  blankets  to  dry.  He  sat 
down  with  his  back  against  a  tree  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 
From  somewhere  in  the  dense  timber  along  the  river 
came  a  sudden,  rageful,  shivering  wail.  The  pony 
danced  at  the  end  of  his  rope  and  blew  a  whistling  snort 
of  comprehending  fear.  Givens  puffed  at  his  cigarette, 
but  he  reached  leisurely  for  his  pistol-belt,  which  lay 
on  the  grass,  and  twirled  the  cylinder  of  his  weapon 
tentatively.  A  great  gar  plunged  with  a  loud  splash 
into  the  water  hole.  A  little  brown  rabbit  skipped 
around  a  bunch  of  catclaw  and  sat  twitching  his  whiskers 
and  looking  humorously  at  Givens.  The  pony  went  on 
eating  grass. 

It  is  well  to  be  reasonably  watchful  when  a  Mexican 
lion  sings  soprano  along  the  arroyos  at  sundown.  The 
burden  of  his  song  may  be  that  young  calves  and  fat 
lambs  are  scarce,  and  that  he  has  a  carnivorous  desire 
for  your  acquaintance. 

In  the  grass  lay  an  empty  fruit  can,  cast  there  by 
some  former  sojourner.  Givens  caught  sight  of  it  with 
a  grunt  of  satisfaction.  In  his  coat  pocket  tied  behind 
his  saddle  was  a  handful  or  two  of  ground  coffee.  Black 


The  Princess  and  the  Puma          251 

coffee  and  cigarettes!  What  ranchero  could  desire 
more  ? 

In  two  minutes  he  had  a  little  fire  going  clearly.  He 
started,  with  his  can,  for  the  water  hole.  When  within 
fifteen  yards  of  its  edge  he  saw,  between  the  bushes,  a 
side-saddled  pony  with  down-dropped  reins  cropping 
grass  a  little  distance  to  his  left.  Just  rising  from  her 
hands  and  knees  on  the  brink  of  the  water  hole  was 
Josefa  O'Donnell.  She  had  been  drinking  water, 
and  she  brushed  the  sand  from  the  palms  of  her  hands. 
Ten  yards  away,  to  her  right,  half  concealed  by  a 
clump  of  sacuista,  Givens  saw  the  crouching  form  of 
the  Mexican  lion.  His  amber  eyeballs  glared  hungrily ; 
six  feet  from  them  was  the  tip  of  the  tail  stretched 
straight,  like  a  pointer's.  His  hind-quarters  rocked 
with  the  motion  of  the  cat  tribe  preliminary  to  leaping. 

Givens  did  what  he  could.  His  six-shooter  was 
thirty-five  yards  away  lying  on  the  grass.  He  gave  a 
loud  yell,  and  dashed  between  the  lion  and  the  princess. 

The  "  rucus,"  as  Givens  called  it  afterward,  was  brief 
and  somewhat  confused.  When  he  arrived  on  the  line 
of  attack  he  saw  a  dim  streak  in  the  air,  and  heard  a 
couple  of  faint  cracks.  Then  a  hundred  pounds  of 
Mexican  lion  plumped  down  upon  his  head  and  flattened 
him,  with  a  heavy  jar,  to  the  ground.  He  remembered 
calling  out:  "Let  up,  now  —  no  fair  gouging!"  and 
then  he  crawled  from  under  the  lion  like  a  worm,  with 
his  mouth  full  of  grass  and  dirt,  and  a  big  lump  on  the 
back  of  his  head  where  it  had  struck  the  root  of  a  water- 
elm.  The  lion  lay  motionless.  Givens,  feeling  ag- 


252  Heart  of  the  West 

grieved,  and  suspicious  of  fouls,  shook  his  fist  at  the 
lion,  and  shouted :  "  I'll  rastle  you  again  for 
twenty  — "  and  then  he  got  back  to  himself. 

Josefa  was  standing  in  her  tracks,  quietly  reloading 
her  silver-mounted  .38.  It  had  not  been  a  difficult  shot. 
The  lion's  head  made  an  easier  mark  than  a  tomato-can 
swinging  at  the  end  of  a  string.  There  was  a  provok- 
ing, teasing,  maddening  smile  upon  her  mouth  and  in 
her  dark  eyes.  The  would-be-rescuing  knight  felt  the 
fire  of  his  fiasco  burn  down  to  his  soul.  Here  had 
been  his  chance,  the  chance  that  he  had  dreamed  of; 
and  Momus,  and  not  Cupid,  had  presided  over  it.  The 
satyrs  in  the  wood  were,  no  doubt,  holding  their  sides 
in  hilarious,  silent  laughter.  There  had  been  something 
like  vaudeville  —  say  Signor  Givens  and  his  funny 
knockabout  act  with  the  stuffed  lion. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Givens  ?  "  said  Josefa,  in  her  de- 
liberate, saccharine  contralto.  "  You  nearly  spoiled  my 
shot  when  you  yelled.  Did  you  hurt  your  head  when 
you  fell?  » 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Givens,  quietly;  "that  didn't  hurt." 
He  stooped  ignominiously  and  dragged  his  best  Stetson 
hat  from  under  the  beast.  It  was  crushed  and  wrinkled 
to  a  fine  comedy  effect.  Then  he  knelt  down  and 
softly  stroked  the  fierce,  open- jawed  head  of  the  dead 
lion. 

"  Poor  old  Bill !  "  he  exclaimed  mournfully. 

"What's  that?  "  asked  Josefa  sharply. 

"  Of  course  you  didn't  know,  Miss  Josefa,"  said 
Givens,  with  an  air  of  one  allowing  magnanimity  to 


The  Princess  and  the  Puma          258 

triumph  over  grief.  "  Nobody  can  blame  you.  I  tried 
to  save  him,  but  I  couldn't  let  you  know  in  time." 

"Save  who?" 

"  Why,  Bill.  I've  been  looking  for  him  all  day. 
You  see,  he's  been  our  camp  pet  for  two  years.  Poor 
old  fellow,  he  wouldn't  have  hurt  a  cottontail  rabbit. 
It'll  break  the  boys  all  up  when  they  hear  about  it. 
But  you  couldn't  tell,  of  course,  that  Bill  was  just  trying 
to  play  with  you." 

Josef a's  black  eyes  burned  steadily  upon  him.  Ripley 
Givens  met  the  test  successfully.  He  stood  rumpling 
the  yellow-brown  curls  on  his  head  pensively.  In  his 
eyes  was  regret,  not  unmingled  with  a  gentle  reproach. 
His  smooth  features  were  set  to  a  pattern  of  indisputable 
sorrow.  Josefa  wavered. 

"  What  was  your  pet  doing  here  ?  "  she  asked,  making 
a  last  stand.  "  There's  no  camp  near  the  White  Horse 
Crossing." 

"  The  old  rascal  ran  away  from  camp  yesterday,1* 
answered  Givens  readily.  "  It's  a  wonder  the  coyotes 
didn't  scare  him  to  death.  You  see,  Jim  Webster,  our 
horse  wrangler,  brought  a  little  terrier  pup  into  camp 
last  week.  The  pup  made  life  miserable  for  Bill  —  he 
used  to  chase  him  around  and  chew  his  hind  legs  for 
hours  at  a  time.  Every  night  when  bedtime  came  Bill 
would  sneak  under  one  of  the  boy's  blankets  and  sleep 
to  keep  the  pup  from  finding  him.  I  reckon  he  must 
have  been  worried  pretty  desperate  or  he  wouldn't  have 
run  away.  He  was  always  afraid  to  get  out  of  sight 
of  camp." 


254  Heart  of  the  West 

Josefa  looked  at  the  body  of  the  fierce  animal. 
Givens  gently  patted  one  of  the  formidable  paws  that 
could  have  killed  a  yearling  calf  with  one  blow.  Slowly 
a  red  flush  widened  upon  the  dark  olive  face  of  the  girl. 
Was  it  the  signal  of  shame  of  the  true  sportsman  who 
has  brought  down  ignoble  quarry?  Her  eyes  grew 
softer,  and  the  lowered  lids  drove  away  all  their  bright 
mockery. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said  humbly ;  "  but  he  looked 
so  big,  and  jumped  so  high  that  — 

"  Poor  old  Bill  was  hungry,"  interrupted  Givens, 
in  quick  defence  of  the  deceased.  "  We  always  made 
him  jump  for  his  supper  in  camp.  He  would  lie  down 
and  roll  over  for  a  piece  of  meat.  When  he  saw  you  he 
thought  he  was  going  to  get  something  to  eat  from  you." 

Suddenly  Josefa's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"  I  might  have  shot  you !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
ran  right  in  between.  You  risked  your  life  to  save 
your  pet !  That  was  fine,  Mr.  Givens.  I  like  a  man 
who  is  kind  to  animals." 

Yes;  there  was  even  admiration  in  her  gaze  now. 
After  all,  there  was  a  hero  rising  out  of  the  ruins  of 
the  anti-climax.  The  look  on  Givens's  face  would  have 
secured  him  a  high  position  in  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 

"  I  always  loved  'em,"  said  he ;  "  horses,  dogs,  Mexi- 
can lions,  cows,  alligators  — 

"  I  hate  alligators,"  instantly  demurred  Josefa ; 
"  crawly,  muddy  things !  " 

"  Did  I  say  alligators  ?  "  said  Givens.  "  I  meant 
antelopes,  of  course." 


The  Princess  and  the  Puma  255 

Josefa's  conscience  drove  her  to  make  further  amends. 
She  held  out  her  hand  penitently.  There  was  a  bright, 
unshed  drop  in  each  of  her  eyes. 

"  Please  forgive  me,  Mr.  Givens,  won't  you  ?  I'm 
only  a  girl,  you  know,  and  I  was  frightened  at  first. 
I'm  very,  very  sorry  I  shot  Bill.  You  don't  know  how 
ashamed  I  feel.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  any- 
thing." 

Givens  took  the  proffered  hand.  He  held  it  for  a 
time  while  he  allowed  the  generosity  of  his  nature  to 
overcome  his  grief  at  the  loss  of  Bill.  At  last  it  was 
clear  that  he  had  forgiven  her. 

"  Please  don't  speak  of  it  any  more,  Miss  Josefa. 
'Twas  enough  to  frighten  any  young  lady  the  way  Bill 
looked.  I'll  explain  it  all  right  to  the  boys." 

"  Are  you  really  sure  you  don't  hate  me?  "  Josefa 
came  closer  to  him  impulsively.  Her  eyes  were  sweet 
—  oh,  sweet  and  pleading  with  gracious  penitence.  "  I 
would  hate  anyone  who  would  kill  my  kitten.  And  how 
daring  and  kind  of  you  to  risk  being  shot  when  you  tried 
to  save  him !  How  very  few  men  would  have  done  that !  " 
Victory  wrested  from  defeat !  Vaudeville  turned  into 
drama!  Bravo,  Ripley  Givens! 

It  was  now  twilight.  Of  course  Miss  Josefa  could 
not  be  allowed  to  ride  on  to  the  ranch-house  alone. 
Givens  resaddled  his  pony  in  spite  of  that  animal's  re- 
proachful glances,  and  rode  with  her.  Side  by  side  they 
galloped  across  the  smooth  grass,  the  princess  and  the 
man  who  was  kind  to  animals.  The  prairie  odours  of 
fruitful  earth  and  delicate  bloom  were  thick  and  sweet 


256  Heart  of  the  West 

around  them.  Coyotes  yelping  over  there  on  the  hill! 
No  fear.  And  yet  — 

Josefa  rode  closer.  A  little  hand  seemed  to  grope. 
Givens  found  it  with  his  own.  The  ponies  kept  an 
even  gait.  The  hands  lingered  together,  and  the  owner 
of  one  explained : 

"I  never  was  frightened  before,  but  just  think! 
How  terrible  it  would  be  to  meet  a  really  wild  lion! 
Poor  Bill !  I'm  so  glad  you  came  with  me !  " 

O'Donnell  was  sitting  on  the  ranch  gallery. 

"  Hello,  Rip ! "  he  shouted  — "  that  you?  " 

"  He  rode  in  with  me,"  said  Josefa.  "  I  lost  my 
way  and  was  late." 

"Much  obliged,"  called  the  cattle  king.  "Stop 
over,  Rip,  and  ride  to  camp  in  the  morning." 

But  Givens  would  not.  He  would  push  on  to 
camp.  There  was  a  bunch  of  steers  to  start  off  on  the 
trail  at  daybreak.  He  said  good-night,  and  trotted 
away. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  lights  were  out,  Josefa,  in 
her  night-robe,  came  to  her  door  and  called  to  the  king 
in  his  own  room  across  the  brick-paved  hallway: 

"  Say,  pop,  you  know  that  old  Mexican  lion  they 
call  the  'Gotch-eared  Devil' — the  one  that  killed 
Gonzales,  Mr.  Martin's  sheep  herder,  and  about  fifty 
calves  on  the  Salado  range?  Well,  I  settled  his  hash 
this  afternoon  over  at  the  White  Horse  Crossing.  Put 
two  balls  in  his  head  with  my  .38  while  he  was  on  the 
jump.  I  knew  him  by  the  slice  gone  from  his  left  ear 


The  Princess  and  the  Puma          257 

that  old  Gonzales  cut  off  with  his  machete.     You  couldn't 
have  made  a  better  shot  yourself,  daddy." 

"  Bully  for  you ! "  thundered  Whispering  Ben  from 
the  darkness  of  the  royal  chamber. 


XVI 

THE  INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  DRY  VALLEY 
JOHNSON 

DRY  VALLEY  JOHNSON  shook  the  bottle.  You 
have  to  shake  the  bottle  before  using;  for  sulphur  will 
not  dissolve.  Then  Dry  Valley  saturated  a  small  sponge 
with  the  liquid  and  rubbed  it  carefully  into  the  roots  of 
his  hair.  Besides  sulphur  there  was  sugar  of  lead  in  it 
and  tincture  of  nux  vomica  and  bay  rum.  Dry  Valley 
found  the  recipe  in  a  Sunday  newspaper.  You  must 
next  be  told  why  a  strong  man  came  to  fall  a  victim  to 
a  Beauty  Hint. 

Dry  Valley  had  been  a  sheepman.  His  real  name 
was  Hector,  but  he  had  been  rechristened  after  his 
range  to  distinguish  him  from  "  Elm  Creek "  John- 
son, who  ran  sheep  further  down  the  Frio. 

Many  years  of  living  face  to  face  with  sheep  on 
their  own  terms  wearied  Dry  Valley  Johnson.  So,  he 
sold  his  ranch  for  eighteen  thousand  dollars  and  moved 
to  Santa  Rosa  to  live  a  life  of  gentlemanly  ease.  Being 
a  silent  and  melancholy  person  of  thirty-five  —  or  per- 
haps thirty-eight  —  he  soon  became  that  cursed  and 
earth-cumbering  thing  —  an  elderlyish  bachelor  with  a 
hobby.  Some  one  gave  him  his  first  strawberry  to  eat, 

and  he  was  done  for. 

258 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer         259 

Dry  Valley  bought  a  four-room  cottage  in  the  village, 
and  a  library  on  strawberry  culture.  Behind  the  cot- 
tage was  a  garden  of  which  he  made  a  strawberry  patch. 
In  his  old  grey  woolen  shirt,  his  brown  duck  trousers, 
and  high-heeled  boots  he  sprawled  all  day  on  a  canvas 
cot  under  a  live-oak  tree  at  his  back  door  studying  the 
history  of  the  seductive,  scarlet  berry. 

The  school  teacher,  Miss  De  Witt,  spoke  of  him  as 
"  a  fine,  presentable  man,  for  all  his  middle  age."  But, 
the  focus  of  Dry  Valley's  eyes  embraced  no  women. 
'They  were  merely  beings  who  flew  skirts  as  a  signal  for 
him  to  lift  awkwardly  his  heavy,  round-crowned,  broad- 
brimmed  felt  Stetson  whenever  he  met  them,  and  then 
hurry  past  to  get  back  to  his  beloved  berries. 

And  all  this  recitative  by  the  chorus  is  only  to  bring 
us  to  the  point  where  you  may  be  told  why  Dry  Valley 
shook  up  the  insoluble  sulphur  in  the  bottle.  So  long- 
drawn  and  inconsequential  a  thing  is  history  —  the  an- 
amorphous  shadow  of  a  milestone  reaching  down  the  road 
between  us  and  the  setting  sun. 

When  his  strawberries  were  beginning  to  ripen  Dry 
Valley  bought  the  heaviest  buggy  whip  in  the  Santa 
Rosa  store.  He  sat  for  many  hours  under  the  live  oak 
tree  plaiting  and  weaving  in  an  extension  to  its  lash. 
When  it  was  done  he  could  snip  a  leaf  from  a  bush 
twenty  feet  away  with  the  cracker.  For  the  bright, 
predatory  eyes  of  Santa  Rosa  youth  were  watching  the 
ripening  berries,  and  Dry  Valley  was  arming  himself 
against  their  expected  raids.  No  greater  care  had  he 
taken  of  his  tender  lambs  during  his  ranching  days  than 


260  Heart  of  the  West 

he  did  of  his  cherished  fruit,  warding  it  from  the  hungry 
wolves  that  whistled  and  howled  and  shot  their  marbles 
and  peered  through  the  fence  that  surrounded  his  prop- 
erty. 

In  the  house  next  to  Dry  Valley's  lived  a  widow  with 
a  pack  of  children  that  gave  the  husbandman  frequent 
anxious  misgivings.  In  the  woman  there  was  a  strain 
of  the  Spanish.  She  had  wedded  one  of  the  name  of 
O'Brien.  Dry  Valley  was  a  connoisseur  in  cross  strains; 
and  he  foresaw  trouble  in  the  offspring  of  this  union. 

Between  the  two  homesteads  ran  a  crazy  picket  fence 
overgrown  with  morning  glory  and  wild  gourd  vines. 
Often  he  could  see  little  heads  with  mops  of  black  hair 
and  flashing  dark  eyes  dodging  in  and  out  between  the 
pickets,  keeping  tabs  on  the  reddening  berries. 

Late  one  afternoon  Dry  Valley  went  to  the  post  office. 
When  he  came  back,  like  Mother  Hubbard  he  found  the 
deuce  to  pay.  The  descendants  of  Iberian  bandits  and 
Hibernian  cattle  raiders  had  swooped  down  upon  his 
strawberry  patch.  To  the  outraged  vision  of  Dry  Val- 
ley there  seemed  to  be  a  sheep  corral  full  of  them;  per- 
haps they  numbered  five  or  six.  Between  the  rows  of 
green  plants  they  were  stooped,  hopping  about  like  toads, 
gobbling  silently  and  voraciously  his  finest  fruit. 

Dry  Valley  slipped  into  the  house,  got  his  whip,  and 
charged  the  marauders.  The  lash  curled  about  the  legs 
of  the  nearest  —  a  greedy  ten-year-old  —  before  they 
knew  they  were  discovered.  His  screech  gave  warning; 
and  the  flock  scampered  for  the  fence  like  a  drove  of 
javelis  flushed  in  the  chaparraL  Dry  Valley's  whip 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer          261 

drew  a  toll  of  two  more  elfin  shrieks  before  they  dived 
through  the  vine-clad  fence  and  disappeared. 

Dry  Valley,  less  fleet,  followed  them  nearly  to  the 
pickets.  Checking  his  useless  pursuit,  he  rounded  a 
bush,  dropped  his  whip  and  stood,  voiceless,  motionless, 
the  capacity  of  his  powers  consumed  by  the  act  of  breath- 
ing and  preserving  the  perpendicular. 

Behind  the  bush  stood  Panchita  O'Brien,  scorning  to 
fly.  She  was  nineteen,  the  oldest  of  the  raiders.  Her 
night-black  hair  was  gathered  back  in  a  wild  mass  and 
tied  with  a  scarlet  ribbon.  She  stood,  with  reluctant 
feet,  yet  nearer  the  brook  than  to  the  river;  for  child- 
hood had  environed  and  detained  her. 

She  looked  at  Dry  Valley  Johnson  for  a  moment 
with  magnificent  insolence,  and  before  his  eyes  slowly 
crunched  a  luscious  berry  between  her  white  teeth. 
Then  she  turned  and  walked  slowly  to  the  fence  with 
a  swaying,  conscious  motion,  such  as  a  duchess  might 
make  use  of  in  leading  a  promenade.  There  she  turned 
again  and  grilled  Dry  Valley  Johnson  once  more  in 
the  dark  flame  of  her  audacious  eyes,  laughed  a  trifle 
school-girlishly,  and  twisted  herself  with  pantherish 
quickness  between  the  pickets  to  the  O'Brien  side  of 
the  wild  gourd  vine. 

Dry  Valley  picked  up  his  whip  and  went  into  his 
house.  He  stumbled  as  he  went  up  the  two  wooden 
steps.  The  old  Mexican  woman  who  cooked  his  meals 
and  swept  his  house  called  him  to  supper  as  he  went 
through  the  rooms.  Dry  Valley  went  on,  stumbled 
down  the  front  steps,  out  the  gate  and  down  the  road 


262  Heart  of  the  West 

into  a  mesquite  thicket  at  the  edge  of  town.  He  sat 
down  in  the  grass  and  laboriously  plucked  the  spines 
from  a  prickly  pear,  one  by  one.  This  was  his  attitude 
of  thought,  acquired  in  the  days  when  his  problems 
were  only  those  of  wind  and  wool  and  water. 

A  thing  had  happened  to  the  man  —  a  thing  that, 
if  you  are  eligible,  you  must  pray  may  pass  you  by. 
He  had  become  enveloped  in  the  Indian  Summer  of  the 
Soul. 

Dry  Valley  had  had  no  youth.  Even  his  childhood 
had  been  one  of  dignity  and  seriousness.  At  six  he 
had  viewed  the  frivolous  gambols  of  the  lambs  on  his 
father's  ranch  with  silent  disapproval.  His  life  as  a 
young  man  had  been  wasted.  The  divine  fires  and  im- 
pulses, the  glorious  exaltations  and  despairs,  the  glow 
and  enchantment  of  youth  had  passed  above  his  head. 
Never  a  thrill  of  Romeo  had  he  known ;  he  was  but  a 
melancholy  Jaques  of  the  forest  with  a  ruder  philos- 
ophy, lacking  the  bitter-sweet  flavour  of  experience  that 
tempered  the  veteran  years  of  the  rugged  ranger  of 
Arden.  And  now  in  his  sere  and  yellow  leaf  one  scornful 
look  from  the  eyes  of  Panchita  O'Brien  had  flooded  the 
autumnal  landscape  with  a  tardy  and  delusive  summer 
heat. 

But  a  sheepman  is  a  hardy  animal.  Dry  Valley 
Johnson  had  weathered  too  many  northers  to  turn  his 
back  on  a  late  summer,  spiritual  or  real.  Old?  He 
would  show  them. 

By  the  next  mail  went  an  order  to  San  Antonio  for 
an  outfit  of  the  latest  clothes,  colours  and  styles  and 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer         263 

prices  no  object.  The  next  day  went  the  recipe  for  the 
hair  restorer  clipped  from  a  newspaper;  for  Dry  Val- 
ley's sunburned  auburn  hair  was  beginning  to  turn 
silvery  above  his  ears. 

Dry  Valley  kept  indoors  closely  for  a  week  except 
for  frequent  sallies  after  youthful  strawberry  snatchers. 
Then,  a  few  days  later,  he  suddenly  emerged  brilliantly 
radiant  in  the  hectic  glow  of  his  belated  midsummer 
madness. 

A  jay -bird-blue  tennis  suit  covered  him  outwardly, 
almost  as  far  as  his  wrists  and  ankles.  His  shirt  was 
ox-blood;  his  collar  winged  and  tall;  his  necktie  a 
floating  oriflamme ;  his  shoes  a  venomous  bright  tan, 
pointed  and  shaped  on  penitential  lasts.  A  little  flat 
straw  hat  with  a  striped  band  desecrated  his  weather- 
beaten  head.  Lemon-coloured  kid  gloves  protected  his 
oak-tough  hands  from  the  benignant  May  sunshine. 
This  sad  and  optic-smiting  creature  teetered  out  of  its 
den,  smiling  foolishly  and  smoothing  its  gloves  for  men 
and  angels  to  see.  To  such  a  pass  had  Dry  Valley 
Johnson  been  brought  by  Cupid,  who  always  shoots 
game  that  is  out  of  season  with  an  arrow  from  the 
quiver  of  Momus.  Reconstructing  mythology,  he  had 
risen,  a  prismatic  macaw,  from  the  ashes  of  the  grey- 
brown  phoenix  that  had  folded  its  tired  wings  to  roost 
under  the  trees  of  Santa  Rosa. 

Dry  Valley  paused  in  the  street  to  allow  Santa  Rosans 
within  sight  of  him  to  be  stunned ;  and  then  deliberately 
and  slowly,  as  his  shoes  required,  entered  Mrs.  O'Brien's 
gate. 


264  Heart  of  the  West 

Not  until  the  eleven  months'  drought  did  Santa  Rosa 
cease  talking  about  Dry  Valley  Johnson's  courtship  of 
Panchita  O'Brien.  It  was  an  unclassifiable  procedure; 
something  like  a  combination  of  cake-walking,  deaf- 
and-dumb  oratory,  postage  stamp  flirtation  and  parlour 
charades.  It  lasted  two  weeks  and  then  came  to  a  sud- 
den end. 

Of  course  Mrs.  O'Brien  favoured  the  match  as  soon 
as  Dry  Valley's  intentions  were  disclosed.  Being  the 
mother  of  a  woman  child,  and  therefore  a  charter  member 
of  the  Ancient  Order  of  the  Rat-trap,  she  joyfully 
decked  out  Panchita  for  the  sacrifice.  The  girl  was 
temporarily  dazzled  by  having  her  dresses  lengthened 
and  her  hair  piled  up  on  her  head,  and  came  near  for- 
getting that  she  was  only  a  slice  of  cheese.  It  was  nice, 
too,  to  have  as  good  a  match  as  Mr.  Johnson  paying  you 
attentions  and  to  see  the  other  girls  fluttering  the  cur- 
tains at  their  windows  to  see  you  go  by  with  him. 

Dry  Valley  bought  a  buggy  with  yellow  wheels  and 
a  fine  trotter  in  San  Antonio.  Every  day  he  drove  out 
with  Panchita.  He  was  never  seen  to  speak  to  her  when 
they  were  walking  or  driving.  The  consciousness  of 
his  clothes  kept  his  mind  busy;  the  knowledge  that  he 
could  say  nothing  of  interest  kept  him  dumb ;  the  feeling 
that  Panchita  was  there  kept  him  happy. 

He  took  her  to  parties  and  dances,  and  to  church. 
He  tried  —  oh,  no  man  ever  tried  so  hard  to  be  young 
as  Dry  Valley  did.  He  could  not  dance;  but  he  in- 
vented a  smile  which  he  wore  on  these  joyous  occasions, 
a  smile  that,  in  him,  was  as  great  a  concession  to  mirth 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer         265 

and  gaiety  as  turning  hand-springs  would  be  in  another. 
He  began  to  seek  the  company  of  the  young  men  in  the 
town  —  even  of  the  boys.  They  accepted  him  as  a 
decided  damper,  for  his  attempts  at  sportiveness  were 
so  forced  that  they  might  as  well  have  essayed  their 
games  in  a  cathedral.  Neither  he  nor  any  other  could 
estimate  what  progress  he  had  made  with  Panchita. 

The  end  came  suddenly  in  one  day,  as  often  disap- 
pears the  false  afterglow  before  a  November  sky  and 
wind. 

Dry  Valley  was  to  call  for  the  girl  one  afternoon 
at  six  for  a  walk.  An  afternoon  walk  in  Santa  Rosa 
was  a  feature  of  social  life  that  called  for  the  pink  of 
one's  wardrobe.  So  Dry  Valley  began  gorgeously  to 
array  himself;  and  so  early  that  he  finished  early,  and 
went  over  to  the  O'Brien  cottage.  As  he  neared  the 
porch  on  the  crooked  walk  from  the  gate  he  heard  sounds 
of  revelry  within.  He  stopped  and  looked  through  the 
honeysuckle  vines  in  the  open  door. 

Panchita  was  amusing  her  younger  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  wore  a  man's  clothes  —  no  doubt  those  of 
the  late  Mr.  O'Brien.  On  her  head  was  the  smallest 
brother's  straw  hat  decorated  with  an  ink-striped  pa- 
per band.  On  her  hands  were  flapping  yellow  cloth 
gloves,  roughly  cut  out  and  sewn  for  the  masquerade. 
The  same  material  covered  her  shoes,  giving  them  the 
semblance  of  tan  leather.  High  collar  and  flowing  neck- 
tie were  not  omitted. 

Panchita  was  an  actress.  Dry  Valley  saw  his  af- 
fectedly youthful  gait,  his  limp  where  the  right  shoe 


266  Heart  of  the  West 

hurt  him,  his  forced  smile,  his  awkward  simulation  of 
a  gallant  air,  all  reproduced  with  startling  fidelity.  For 
the  first  time  a  mirror  had  been  held  up  to  him.  The 
corroboration  of  one  of  the  youngsters  calling,  "  Mam- 
ma, come  and  see  Pancha  do  like  Mr.  Johnson,"  was  not 
needed. 

As  softly  as  the  caricatured  tans  would  permit,  Dry 
Valley  tiptoed  back  to  the  gate  and  home  again. 

Twenty  minutes  after  the  time  appointed  for  the 
walk  Panchita  tripped  demurely  out  her  gate  in  a  thin, 
trim  white  lawn  and  sailor  hat.  She  strolled  up  the 
sidewalk  and  slowed  her  steps  at  Dry  Valley's  gate, 
her  manner  expressing  wonder  at  his  unusual  de- 
linquency. 

Then  out  of  his  door  and  down  the  walk  strode  —  not 
the  polychromatic  victim  of  a  lost  summertime,  but  the 
sheepman,  rehabilitated.  He  wore  his  old  grey  woolen 
shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  his  brown  duck  trousers  stuffed 
into  his  run-over  boots,  and  his  white  felt  sombrero  on 
the  back  of  his  head.  Twenty  years  or  fifty  he  might 
look;  Dry  Valley  cared  not.  His  light  blue  eyes  met 
Panchita's  dark  ones  with  a  cold  flash  in  them.  He 
came  as  far  as  the  gate.  He  pointed  with  his  long  arm 
to  her  house. 

"  Go  home,"  said  Dry  Valley.  "  Go  home  to  your 
mother.  I  wonder  lightnin'  don't  strike  a  fool  like  me. 
Go  home  and  play  in  the  sand.  What  business  have  you 
got  cavortin'  around  with  grown  men?  I  reckon  I  was 
locoed  to  be  makin'  a  he  poll-parrot  out  of  myself  for  a 
kid  like  you.  Go  home  and  don't  let  me  see  you  no 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer          267 

more.  Why  I  done  it,  will  somebody  tell  me?  Go  home, 
and  let  me  try  and  forget  it." 

Panchita  obeyed  and  walked  slowly  toward  her  home, 
saying  nothing.  For  some  distance  she  kept  her  head 
turned  and  her  large  eyes  fixed  intrepidly  upon  Dry 
Valley's.  At  her  gate  she  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
back  at  him,  then  ran  suddenly  and  swiftly  into  the 
house. 

Old  Antonia  was  building  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove. 
Dry  Valley  stopped  at  the  door  and  laughed  harshly. 

"  I'm  a  pretty  looking  old  rhinoceros  to  be  get  tin* 
stuck  on  a  kid,  ain't  I,  'Tonia?  "  said  he. 

"  Not  verree  good  thing,"  agreed  Antonia,  sagely, 
"  for  too  much  old  man  to  likee  muchacha" 

"  You  bet  it  ain't,"  said  Dry  Valley,  grimly.  "  It's 
dum  foolishness;  and,  besides,  it  hurts." 

He  brought  at  one  armful  the  regalia  of  his  aber- 
ration —  the  blue  tennis  suit,  shoes,  hat,  gloves  and  all, 
and  threw  them  in  a  pile  at  Antonia's  feet. 

"  Give  them  to  your  old  man,"  said  he,  "  to  hunt  ante- 
lope in." 

Just  as  the  first  star  presided  palely  over  the  twi- 
light Dry  Valley  got  his  biggest  strawberry  book  and 
sat  on  the  back  steps  to  catch  the  last  of  the  reading 
light.  He  thought  he  saw  the  figure  of  someone  in  his 
strawberry  patch.  He  laid  aside  the  book,  got  his  whip 
and  hurried  forth  to  see. 

It  was  Panchita.  She  had  slipped  through  the  picket 
fence  and  was  half-way  across  the  patch.  She  stopped 
when  she  saw  him  and  looked  at  him  without  wavering. 


268  Heart  of  the  West 

A  sudden  rage  —  a  humiliating  flush  of  unreasoning 
wrath  —  came  over  Dry  Valley.  For  this  child  he  had 
made  himself  a  motley  to  the  view.  He  had  tried  to 
bribe  Time  to  turn  backward  for  himself ;  he  had  — 
been  made  a  fool  of.  At  last  he  had  seen  his  folly. 
There  was  a  gulf  between  him  and  youth  over  which 
he  could  not  build  a  bridge  even  with  yellow  gloves 
to  protect  his  hands.  And  the  sight  of  his  torment 
coming  to  pester  him  with  her  elfin  pranks  —  coming  to 
plunder  his  strawberry  vines  like  a  mischievous  school- 
boy —  roused  all  his  anger. 

"  I  told  you  to  keep  away  from  here,"  said  Dry 
Valley.  "  Go  back  to  your  home." 

Panchita  moved  slowly  toward  him. 

Dry  Valley  cracked  his  whip. 

"  Go  back  home,"  said  Dry  Valley,  savagely,  "  and 
play  theatricals  some  more.  You'd  make  a  fine  man. 
You've  made  a  fine  one  of  me." 

She  came  a  step  nearer,  silent,  and  with  that  strange, 
defiant,  steady  shine  in  her  eyes  that  had  always  puzzled 
him.  Now  it  stirred  his  wrath. 

His  whiplash  whistled  through  the  air.  He  saw  a 
red  streak  suddenly  come  out  through  her  white  dress 
above  her  knee  where  it  had  struck. 

Without  flinching  and  with  the  same  unchanging  dark 
glow  in  her  eyes,  Panchita  came  steadily  toward  him 
through  the  strawberry  vines.  Dry  Valley's  trembling 
hand  released  his  whip  handle.  When  within  a  yard 
of  him  Panchita  stretched  out  her  arms. 


Dry  Valley's  Indian  Summer         269 

"  God,  kid ! "  stammered  Dry  Valley,  "  do  you 
mean  — ?  " 

But  the  seasons  are  versatile;  and  it  may  have  been 
Springtime,  after  all,  instead  of  Indian  Summer,  that 
struck  Dry  Valley  Johnson. 


XVII 
CHRISTMAS  BY  INJUNCTION 

CHEROKEE  was  the  civic  father  of  Yellowhammer. 
Yellowhammer  was  a  new  mining  town  constructed 
mainly  of  canvas  and  undressed  pine.  Cherokee  was  a 
prospector.  One  day  while  his  burro  was  eating  quartz 
and  pine  burrs  Cherokee  turned  up  with  his  pick  a  nug- 
get weighing  thirty  ounces.  He  staked  his  claim  and 
then,  being  a  man  of  breadth  and  hospitality,  sent  out 
invitations  to  his  friends  in  three  States  to  drop  in  and 
share  his  luck. 

Not  one  of  the  invited  guests  sent  regrets.  They 
rolled  in  from  the  Gila  country,  from  Salt  River,  from 
the  Pecos,  from  Albuquerque  and  Phoenix  and  Santa 
Fe,  and  from  the  camps  intervening. 

When  a  thousand  citizens  had  arrived  and  taken  up 
claims  they  named  the  town  Yellowhammer,  appointed  a 
vigilance  committee,  and  presented  Cherokee  with  a 
watch-chain  made  of  nuggets. 

Three  hours  after  the  presentation  ceremonies  Chero- 
kee's claim  played  out.  He  had  located  a  pocket  instead 
of  a  vein.  He  abandoned  it  and  staked  others  one  by 
one.  Luck  had  kissed  her  hand  to  him.  Never  after- 
ward did  he  turn  up  enough  dust  in  Yellowhammer  to 

pay  his  bar  bill.     But  his  thousand  invited  guests  were 

270 


Christmas  by  Injunction  271 

mostly  prospering,  and  Cherokee  smiled  and  congratu- 
lated them. 

Yellowhammer  was  made  up  of  men  who  took  off 
their  hats  to  a  smiling  loser;  so  they  invited  Cherokee 
to  say  what  he  wanted. 

"  Me  ?  "  said  Cherokee,  "  oh,  grubstakes  will  be  about 
the  thing.  I  reckon  I'll  prospect  along  up  in  the  Mari- 
posas.  If  I  strike  it  up  there  I  will  most  certainly  let 
you  all  know  about  the  facts.  I  never  was  any  hand 
to  hold  out  cards  on  my  friends." 

In  May  Cherokee  packed  his  burro  and  turned  its 
thoughtful,  mouse-coloured  forehead  to  the  north. 
Many  citizens  escorted  him  to  the  undefined  limits  of 
Yellowhammer  and  bestowed  upon  him  shouts  of  com- 
mendation and  farewells.  Five  pocket  flasks  without 
an  air  bubble  between  contents  and  cork  were  forced 
upon  him ;  and  he  was  bidden  to  consider  Yellowham- 
mer in  perpetual  commission  for  his  bed,  bacon  and 
eggs,  and  hot  water  for  shaving  in  the  event  that  luck 
did  not  see  fit  to  warm  her  hands  by  his  campfire  in  the 
Mariposas. 

The  name  of  the  father  of  Yellowhammer  was  given 
him  by  the  gold  hunters  in  accordance  with  their  pop- 
ular system  of  nomenclature.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
a  citizen  to  exhibit  his  baptismal  certificate  in  order 
to  acquire  a  cognomen.  A  man's  name  was  his  per- 
sonal property.  For  convenience  in  calling  him  up  to 
the  bar  and  in  designating  him  among  other  blue-shirted 
bipeds,  a  temporary  appellation,  title,  or  epithet  was 
conferred  upon  him  by  the  public.  Personal  peculiar!- 


272  Heart  of  the  West 

ties  formed  the  source  of  the  majority  of  such  informal 
baptisms.  Many  were  easily  dubbed  geographically 
from  the  regions  from  which  they  confessed  to  have 
hailed.  Some  announced  themselves  to  be  "  Thompsons," 
and  "  Adamses,"  and  the  like,  with  a  brazenness  and 
loudness  that  cast  a  cloud  upon  their  titles.  A  few  vain- 
gloriously  and  shamelessly  uncovered  their  proper  and 
indisputable  names.  This  was  held  to  be  unduly  ar- 
rogant, and  did  not  win  popularity.  One  man  who  said 
he  was  Chesterton  L.  C.  Belmont,  and  proved  it  by  let- 
ters, was  given  till  sundown  to  leave  the  town.  Such 
names  as  "Shorty,"  "Bow-legs,"  "Texas,"  "Lazy 
Bill,"  "Thirsty  Rogers,"  "Limping  Riley,"  "The 
Judge,"  and  "  California  Ed  "  were  in  favour.  Chero- 
kee derived  his  title  from  the  fact  that  he  claimed  to 
have  lived  for  a  time  with  that  tribe  in  the  Indian  Na- 
tion. 

On  the  twentieth  day  of  December  Baldy,  the  mail 
rider,  brought  Yellowhammer  a  piece  of  news. 

"  What  do  I  see  in  Albuquerque,"  said  Baldy,  to  the 
patrons  of  the  bar,  "  but  Cherokee  all  embellished  and 
festooned  up  like  the  Czar  of  Turkey,  and  lavishin' 
money  in  bulk.  Him  and  me  seen  the  elephant  and  the 
owl,  and  we  had  specimens  of  this  seidlitz  powder  wine ; 
and  Cherokee  he  audits  all  the  bills,  C.  O.  D.  His  pock- 
ets looked  like  a  pool  table's  after  a  fifteen-ball  run." 

"  Cherokee  must  have  struck  pay  ore,"  remarked 
California  Ed.  "  Well,  he's  white.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  him  for  his  success." 

"  Seems   like  Cherokee  would  ramble  down  to  Yel- 


Christmas  by  Injunction  273 

lowhammer  and  see  his  friends,"  said  another,  slightly 
aggrieved.  "  But  that's  the  way.  Prosperity  is  the 
finest  cure  there  is  for  lost  forgetfulness." 

"You  wait,"  said  Baldy;  "I'm  comin'  to  that. 
Cherokee  strikes  a  three-foot  vein  up  in  the  Mariposas 
that  assays  a  trip  to  Europe  to  the  ton,  and  he  closes 
it  out  to  a  syndicate  outfit  for  a  hundred  thousand 
hasty  dollars  in  cash.  Then  he  buys  himself  a  baby 
sealskin  overcoat  and  a  red  sleigh,  and  what  do  you  think 
he  takes  it  in  his  head  to  do  next  ?  " 

"  Chuck-a-luck,"  said  Texas,  whose  ideas  of  recre- 
ation were  the  gamester's. 

"  Come  and  Kiss  Me,  Ma  Honey,"  sang  Shorty,  who 
carried  tintypes  in  his  pocket  and  wore  a  red  necktie 
while  working  on  his  claim. 

"  Bought  a  saloon  ?  "  suggested  Thirsty  Rogers. 

"  Cherokee  took  me  to  a  room,"  continued  Baldy, 
"  and  showed  me.  He's  got  that  room  full  of  drums 
and  dolls  and  skates  and  bags  of  candy  and  jumping- 
jacks  and  toy  lambs  and  whistles  and  such  infantile 
truck.  And  what  do  you  think  he's  goin'  to  do  with 
them  inefficacious  knick-knacks?  Don't  surmise  none 
—  Cherokee  told  me.  He's  goin'  to  load  'em  up  in  his 
red  sleigh  and  —  wait  a  minute,  don't  order  no  drinks 
yet  —  he's  goin'  to  drive  down  here  to  Yellowhammer 
and  give  the  kids  —  the  kids  of  this  here  town  —  the 
biggest  Christmas  tree  and  the  biggest  cryin'  doll  and 
Little  Giant  Boys'  Tool  Chest  blowout  that  was  ever 
seen  west  of  Cape  Hatteras." 

Two  minutes  of  absolute  silence  ticked  away  in  the 


274  Heart  of  the  West 

wake  of  Baldy's  words.  It  was  broken  by  the  House, 
who,  happily  conceiving  the  moment  to  be  ripe  for  ex- 
tending hospitality,  sent  a  dozen  whisky  glasses  spin- 
ning down  the  bar,  with  the  slower  travelling  bottle 
bringing  up  the  rear. 

"  Didn't  you  tell  him  ?  "  asked  the  miner  called  Trini- 
dad. 

"  Well,  no,"  answered  Baldy,  pensively ;  "  I  never  ex^> 
actly  seen  my  way  to. 

"  You  see,  Cherokee  had  this  Christmas  mess  already 
bought  and  paid  for;  and  he  was  all  flattered  up  with 
self-esteem  over  his  idea ;  and  we  had  in  a  way  flew  the 
flume  with  that  fizzy  wine  I  speak  of ;  so  I  never  let  on." 

u  I  cannot  refrain  from  a  certain  amount  of  sur- 
prise," said  the  Judge,  as  he  hung  his  ivory-handled 
cane  on  the  bar,  "  that  our  friend  Cherokee  should  pos- 
sess such  an  erroneous  conception  of  —  ah  —  his,  as  it 
were,  own  town." 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  terrestrial 
world,"  said  Baldy.  "  Cherokee's  been  gone  from  Yel- 
lowhammer  over  seven  months.  Lots  of  things  could 
happen  in  that  time.  How's  he  to  know  that  there  ain't 
a  single  kid  in  this  town,  and  so  far  as  emigration  is 
concernedj  none  expected  ?  " 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,"  remarked  California  Ed,  "  it's 
funny  some  ain't  drifted  in.  Town  ain't  settled  enough 
yet  for  to  bring  in  the  rubber-ring  brigade,  I  reckon." 

"  To  top  off  this  Christmas-tree  splurge  of  Chero- 
kee's," went  on  Bald}^,  "  he's  goin'  to  give  an  imitation 
of  Santa  Claus.  He's  got  a  white  wig  and  whiskers 


Christmas  by  Injunction  275 

that  disfigure  him  up  exactly  like  the  pictures  of  this 
William  Cullen  Longfellow  in  the  books,  and  a  red  suit 
of  fur-trimmed  outside  underwear,  and  eight-ounce 
gloves,  and  a  stand-up,  lay-down  croshayed  red  cap. 
Ain't  it  a  shame  that  a  outfit  like  that  can't  get  a  chance 
to  connect  with  a  Annie  and  Willie's  prayer  layout?  " 

"  When  does  Cherokee  allow  to  come  over  with  his 
truck  ?  "  inquired  Trinidad. 

"  Mornin'  before  Christmas,"  said  Baldy.  "  And  he 
wants  you  folks  to  have  a  room  fixed  up  and  a  tree 
hauled  and  ready.  And  such  ladies  to  assist  as  can 
stop  breathin'  long  enough  to  let  it  be  a  surprise  for 
the  kids." 

The  unblessed  condition  of  Yellowhammer  had  been 
truly  described.  The  voice  of  childhood  had  never 
gladdened  its  flimsy  structures;  the  patter  of  restless 
little  feet  had  never  consecrated  the  one  rugged  high- 
way between  the  two  rows  of  tents  and  rough  build- 
ings. Later  they  would  come.  But  now  Yellowhammer 
was  but  a  mountain  camp,  and  nowhere  in  it  were  the 
roguish,  expectant  eyes,  opening  wide  at  dawn  of  the 
enchanting  day ;  the  eager,  small  hands  to  reach  for 
Santa's  bewildering  hoard;  the  elated,  childish  voicings 
of  the  season's  joy,  such  as  the  coming  good  things  of 
the  warm-hearted  Cherokee  deserved. 

Of  women  there  were  five  in  Yellowhammer.  The 
assayer's  wife,  the  proprietress  of  the  Lucky  Strike 
Hotel,  and  a  laundress,  whose  washtub  panned  out  an 
ounce  of  dust  a  day.  These  were  the  permanent  fem- 
inines ;  the  remaining  two  were  the  Spangler  Sisters, 


276  Heart  of  tlie  West 

Misses  Fanchon  and  Erma,  of  the  Transcontinental 
Comedy  Company,  then  playing  in  repertoire  at  the 
(improvised)  Empire  Theatre.  But  of  children  there 
were  none.  Sometimes  Miss  Fanchon  enacted  with 
spirit  and  address  the  part  of  robustious  childhood ; 
but  between  her  delineation  and  the  visions  of  ado- 
lescence that  the  fancy  offered  as  eligible  recipients  of 
Cherokee's  holiday  stores  there  seemed  to  be  fixed  a  gulf. 

Christmas  would  come  on  Thursday.  On  Tuesday 
morning  Trinidad,  instead  of  going  to  work,  sought 
the  Judge  at  the  Lucky  Strike  Hotel. 

"  It'll  be  a  disgrace  to  Yellowhammer,"  said  Trini- 
dad, "  if  it  throws  Cherokee  down  on  his  Christmas 
tree  blowout.  You  might  say  that  that  man  made  this 
town.  For  one,  I'm  goin'  to  see  what  can  be  done  to 
give  Santa  Claus  a  square  deal." 

"  My  co-operation,"  said  the  Judge,  "  would  be  gladly 
forthcoming.  I  am  indebted  to  Cherokee  for  past  fa- 
vours. But,  I  do  not  see  —  I  have  heretofore  regarded 
the  absence  of  children  rather  as  a  luxury  —  but  in 
this  instance  —  still,  I  do  not  see  — " 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  Trinidad,  "  and  you'll  see  old 
Ways  and  Means  with  the  fur  on.  I'm  goin'  to  hitch  up 
a  team  and  rustle  a  load  of  kids  for  Cherokee's  Santa 
Claus  act,  if  I  have  to  rob  an  orphan  asylum." 

66  Eureka !  "  cried  the  Judge,  enthusiastically. 

"  No,  you  didn't,"  said  Trinidad,  decidedly.  "  I 
found  it  myself.  I  learned  about  that  Latin  word  at 
school." 

"  I  will  accompany  you,"  declared  the  Judge,  wav- 


Christmas  by  Injunction  277 

ing  his  cane.  "  Perhaps  such  eloquence  and  gift  of 
language  as  I  may  possess  will  be  of  benefit  in  persuad- 
ing our  young  friends  to  lend  themselves  to  our  proj- 
ect." 

Within  an  hour  Yellowhammer  was  acquainted  with 
the  scheme  of  Trinidad  and  the  Judge,  and  approved 
it.  Citizens  who  knew  of  families  with  offspring  within 
a  forty-mile  radius  of  Yellowhammer  came  forward  and 
contributed  their  information.  Trinidad  made  careful 
notes  of  all  such,  and  then  hastened  to  secure  a  vehicle 
and  team. 

The  first  stop  scheduled  was  at  a  double  log-house 
fifteen  miles  out  from  Yellowhammer.  A  man  opened 
the  door  at  Trinidad's  hail,  and  then  came  down  and 
leaned  upon  the  rickety  gate.  The  doorway  was  filled 
with  a  close  mass  of  youngsters,  some  ragged,  all  full 
of  curiosity  and  health. 

"  It's  this  way,"  explained  Trinidad.  "  We're  from 
Yellowhammer,  and  we  come  kidnappin'  in  a  gentle 
kind  of  a  way.  One  of  our  leading  citizens  is  stung 
with  the  Santa  Glaus  affliction,  and  he's  due  in  town 
to-morrow  with  half  the  folderols  that's  painted  red 
and  made  in  Germany.  The  youngest  kid  we  got  in 
Yellowhammer  packs  a  forty-five  and  a  safety  razor. 
Consequently  we're  mighty  shy  on  anybody  to  say  *  Oh ' 
and  *  Ah '  when  we  light  the  candles  on  the  Christmas 
tree.  Now,  partner,  if  you'll  loan  us  a  few  kids  we 
guarantee  to  return  'em  safe  and  sound  on  Christmas 
Day.  And  they'll  come  back  loaded  down  with  a  good 
time  and  Swiss  Family  Robinsons  and  cornucopias  and 


278  Heart  of  the  West 

red  drums  and  similar  testimonials.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"  In  other  words,"  said  the  Judge,  "  we  have  discov- 
ered for  the  first  time  in  our  embryonic  but  progres- 
sive little  city  the  inconveniences  of  the  absence  of 
adolescence.  The  season  of  the  year  having  approxi- 
mately arrived  during  which  it  is  a  custom  to  bestow 
frivolous  but  often  appreciated  gifts  upon  the  young 
and  tender  — " 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  parent,  packing  his  pipe 
with  a  forefinger.  "  I  guess  I  needn't  detain  you  gen- 
tlemen. Me  and  the  old  woman  have  got  seven  kids, 
so  to  speak;  and,  runnin'  my  mind  over  the  bunch,  I 
don't  appear  to  hit  upon  none  that  we  could  spare 
for  you  to  take  over  to  your  doin's.  The  old  woman 
has  got  some  popcorn  candy  and  rag  dolls  hid  in  the 
clothes  chest,  and  we  allow  to  give  Christmas  a  little 
whirl  of  our  own  in  a  insignificant  sort  of  style.  No, 
I  couldn't,  with  any  degree  of  avidity,  seem  to  fall  in 
with  the  idea  of  lettin'  none  of  'em  go.  Thank  you 
kindly,  gentlemen." 

Down  the  slope  they  drove  and  up  another  foothill 
to  the  ranch-house  of  Wiley  Wilson.  Trinidad  recited 
his  appeal  and  the  Judge  boomed  out  his  ponderous 
antiphony.  Mrs.  Wiley  gathered  her  two  rosy-cheeked 
youngsters  close  to  her  skirts  and  did  not  smile  until 
she  had  seen  Wiley  laugh  and  shake  his  head.  Again 
a  refusal. 

Trinidad  and  the  Judge  vainly  exhausted  more  than 
half  their  list  before  twilight  set  in  among  the  hills. 


Christmas  by  Injunction  279 

They  spent  the  night  at  a  stage  road  hostelry,  and  set 
out  again  early  the  next  morning.  The  wagon  had 
not  acquired  a  single  passenger. 

"  It's  creepin'  upon  my  faculties,"  remarked  Trini- 
dad, "  that  borrowin'  kids  at  Christmas  is  somethin'  like 
tryin'  to  steal  butter  from  a  man  that's  got  hot  pan- 
cakes a-comin'." 

"  It  is  undoubtedly  an  indisputable  fact,"  said  the 
Judge,  "  that  the  —  ah  —  family  ties  seem  to  be  more 
coherent  and  assertive  at  that  period  of  the  year." 

On  the  day  before  Christmas  they  drove  thirty  miles, 
making  four  fruitless  halts  and  appeals.  Everywhere 
they  found  "  kids  "  at  a  premium. 

The  sun  was  low  when  the  wife  of  a  section  boss 
on  a  lonely  railroad  huddled  her  unavailable  progeny  be- 
hind her  and  said : 

"  There's  a  woman  that's  just  took  charge  of  the 
railroad  eatin'  house  down  at  Granite  Junction.  I  hear 
she's  got  a  little  boy.  Maybe  she  might  let  him  go." 

Trinidad  pulled  up  his  mules  at  Granite  Junction  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  train  had  just  de- 
parted with  its  load  of  fed  and  appeased  passengers. 

On  the  steps  of  the  eating  house  they  found  a  thin 
and  glowering  boy  of  ten  smoking  a  cigarette.  The 
dining-room  had  been  left  in  chaos  by  the  peripatetic 
appetites.  A  youngish  woman  reclined,  exhausted,  in 
a  chair.  Her  face  wore  sharp  lines  of  worry.  She  had 
once  possessed  a  certain  style  of  beauty  that  would 
never  wholly  leave  her  and  would  never  wholly  return. 
Trinidad  set  forth  his  mission. 


280  Heart  of  the  West 

"  I'd  count  it  a  mercy  if  you'd  take  Bobby  for  a 
while,"  she  said,  wearily.  "  I'm  on  the  go  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  and  I  don't  have  time  to  'tend  to  him. 
He's  learning  bad  habits  from  the  men.  It'll  be  the 
only  chance  he'll  have  to  get  any  Christmas." 

The  men  went  outside  and  conferred  with  Bobby. 
Trinidad  pictured  the  glories  of  the  Christmas  tree 
and  presents  in  lively  colours. 

"  And,  moreover,  my  young  friend,"  added  the  Judge, 
"  Santa  Claus  himself  will  personally  distribute  the 
offerings  that  will  typify  the  gifts  conveyed  by  the 
shepherds  of  Bethlehem  to — " 

"  Aw,  come  off,"  said  the  boy,  squinting  his  small 
eyes.  "  I  ain't  no  kid.  There  ain't  any  Santa  Claus. 
It's  your  folks  that  buys  toys  and  sneaks  'em  in  when 
you're  asleep.  And  they  make  marks  in  the  soot  in 
the  chimney  with  the  tongs  to  look  like  Santa's  sleigh 
tracks." 

"  That  might  be  so,"  argued  Trinidad,  "  but  Christ- 
mas trees  ain't  no  fairy  tale.  This  one's  goin'  to  look 
like  the  ten-cent  store  in  Albuquerque,  all  strung  up 
in  a  redwood.  There's  tops  and  drums  and  Noah's  arks 
and—" 

"  Oh,  rats  !  "  said  Bobby,  wearily.  "  I  cut  them  out 
long  ago.  I'd  like  to  have  a  rifle  —  not  a  target  one  — 
a  real  one,  to  shoot  wildcats  with;  but  I  guess  you 
won't  have  any  of  them  on  your  old  tree." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  for  sure,"  said  Trinidad  diplo- 
matically ;  "  it  might  be.  You  go  along  with  us  and 


Christmas  by  Injunction  281 

The  hope  thus  held  out,  though  faint,  won  the  boy's 
hesitating  consent  to  go.  With  this  solitary  beneficiary 
for  Cherokee's  holiday  bounty,  the  canvassers  spun 
along  the  homeward  road. 

In  Yellowhammer  the  empty  storeroom  had  been  trans- 
formed into  what  might  have  passed  as  the  bower  of  an 
Arizona  fairy.  The  ladies  had  done  their  work  well.  A 
tall  Christmas  tree,  covered  to  the  topmost  branch  with 
candles,  spangles,  and  toys  sufficient  for  more  than  a 
score  of  children,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  Near 
sunset  anxious  eyes  had  begun  to  scan  the  street  for 
the  returning  team  of  the  child-providers.  At  noon 
that  day  Cherokee  had  dashed  into  town  with  his  new 
sleigh  piled  high  with  bundles  and  boxes  and  bales  of  all 
sizes  and  shapes.  So  intent  was  he  upon  the  arrange- 
ments for  his  altruistic  plans  that  the  dearth  of  child- 
hood did  not  receive  his  notice.  No  one  gave  away  the 
humiliating  state  of  Yellowhammer,  for  the  efforts  of 
Trinidad  and  the  Judge  were  expected  to  supply  the 
deficiency. 

When  the  sun  went  down  Cherokee,  with  many  winks 
and  arch  grins  on  his  seasoned  face,  went  into  retire- 
ment with  the  bundle  containing  the  Santa  Claus  raiment 
and  a  pack  containing  special  and  undisclosed  gifts. 

"  When  the  kids  are  rounded  up,"  he  instructed  the 
volunteer  arrangement  committee,  "  light  up  the  can- 
dles on  the  tree  and  set  'em  to  playin'  *  Pussy  Wants  a 
Corner '  and  6  King  William.'  When  they  get  good 
and  at  it,  why  —  old  Santa'll  slide  in  the  door.  I  reckon 
there'll  be  plenty  of  gifts  to  go  'round." 


282  Heart  of  the  West 

The  ladies  were  flitting  about  the  tree,  giving  it  final 
touches  that  were  never  final.  The  Spangled  Sisters 
were  there  in  costume  as  Lady  Violet  de  Vere  and  Marie, 
the  maid,  in  their  new  drama,  "  The  Miner's  Bride." 
The  theatre  did  not  open  until  nine,  and  they  were  wel- 
come assistants  of  the  Christmas  tree  committee.  Every 
minute  heads  would  pop  out  the  door  to  look  and  listen 
for  the  approach  of  Trinidad's  team.  And  now  this 
became  an  anxious  function,  for  night  had  fallen  and 
it  would  soon  be  necessary  to  light  the  candles  on  the 
tree,  and  Cherokee  was  apt  to  make  an  irruption  at  any 
time  in  his  Kriss  Kringle  garb. 

At  length  the  wagon  of  the  child  "  rustlers  "  rattled 
down  the  street  to  the  door.  The  ladies,  with  little 
screams  of  excitement,  flew  to  the  lighting  of  the  can- 
dles. The  men  of  Yellowhammer  passed  in  and  out  rest- 
lessly or  stood  about  the  room  in  embarrassed  groups. 

Trinidad  and  the  Judge,  bearing  the  marks  of  pro- 
tracted travel,  entered,  conducting  between  them  a 
single  impish  boy,  who  stared  with  sullen,  pessimistic 
eyes  at  the  gaudy  tree. 

"  Where  are  the  other  children  ?  "  asked  the  assay- 
er's  wife,  the  acknowledged  leader  of  all  social  func- 
tions. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  Trinidad  with  a  sigh,  "  prospectin' 
for  kids  at  Christmas  time  is  like  huntin'  in  limestone 
for  silver.  This  parental  business  is  one  that  I  haven't 
no  chance  to  comprehend.  It  seems  that  fathers  and 
mothers  are  willin'  for  their  offsprings  to  be  drownded, 
stole,  fed  on  poison  oak,  and  et  by  catamounts  364*  days 


Christmas  by  Injunction  283 

in  the  year;  but  on  Christmas  Day  they  insists  on  en- 
joyin'  the  exclusive  mortification  of  their  company. 
This  here  young  biped,  ma'am,  is  all  that  washes  out 
of  our  two  days'  manoeuvres." 

"  Oh,  the  sweet  little  boy ! "  cooed  Miss  Erma,  trail- 
ing her  De  Vere  robes  to  centre  of  stage. 

"  Aw,  shut  up,"  said  Bobby,  with  a  scowl.  "  Who's 
a  kid?  You  ain't,  you  bet." 

"  Fresh  brat !  "  breathed  Miss  Erma,  beneath  her  en- 
amelled smile. 

"  We  done  the  best  we  could,"  said  Trinidad.  "  It's 
tough  on  Cherokee,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Cherokee  entered  in  the 
conventional  dress  of  Saint  Nick.  A  white  rippling 
beard  and  flowing  hair  covered  his  face  almost  to  his 
dark  and  shining  eyes.  Over  his  shoulder  he  carried  a 
pack. 

No  one  stirred  as  he  came  in.  Even  the  Spangler 
Sisters  ceased  their  coquettish  poses  and  stared  curi- 
ously at  the  tall  figure.  Bobby  stood  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  gazing  gloomily  at  the  effeminate  and 
childish  tree.  Cherokee  put  down  his  pack  and  looked 
wonderingly  about  the  room.  Perhaps  he  fancied  that 
a  bevy  of  eager  children  were  being  herded  somewhere, 
to  be  loosed  upon  his  entrance.  He  went  up  to  Bobby 
and  extended  his  red-mittened  hand. 

"  Merry  Christmas,  little  boy,"  said  Cherokee. 
"  Anything  on  the  tree  you  want  they'll  get  it  down 
for  you.  Won't  you  shake  hands  with  Santa  Claus?  " 

"  There  ain't   any   Santa   Claus,"  whined  the  boy. 


284  Heart  of  the  West 

"  You've  got  old  false  billy  goat's  whiskers  on  your 
face.  I  ain't  no  kid.  What  do  I  want  with  dolls  and 
tin  horses?  The  driver  said  you'd  have  a  rifle,  and  you 
haven't.  I  want  to  go  home." 

Trinidad  stepped  into  the  breach.  He  shook  Cher- 
okee's hand  in  warm  greeting. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Cherokee,"  he  explained.  "  There  never 
was  a  kid  in  Yellowhammer.  We  tried  to  rustle  a 
bunch  of  'em  for  your  swaree,  but  this  sardine  was  all 
we  could  catch.  He's  a  atheist,  and  he  don't  believe 
in  Santa  Claus.  It's  a  shame  for  you  to  be  out  all  this 
truck.  But  me  and  the  Judge  was  sure  we  could  round 
up  a  wagonful  of  candidates  for  your  gimcracks." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Cherokee  gravely.  "The 
expense  don't  amount  to  nothin'  worth  mentionin'.  We 
can  dump  the  stuff  down  a  shaft  or  throw  it  away.  I 
don't  know  what  I  was  thinkin'  about;  but  it  never 
occurred  to  my  cogitations  that  there  wasn't  any  kids 
in  Yellowhammer." 

Meanwhile  the  company  had  relaxed  into  a  hollow 
but  praiseworthy  imitation  of  a  pleasure  gathering. 

Bobby  had  retreated  to  a  distant  chair,  and  was 
coldly  regarding  the  scene  with  ennui  plastered  thick 
upon  him.  Cherokee,  lingering  with  his  original  idea, 
went  over  and  sat  beside  him. 

"Where  do  you  live,  little  boy?"  he  asked  respect- 
fully. 

"  Granite  Junction,"  said  Bobby  without  emphasis. 

The  room  was  warm.  Cherokee  took  off  his  cap,  and 
then  removed  his  beard  and  wig. 


Christmas  by  Injunction  285 

"  Say ! "  exclaimed  Bobby,  with  a  show  of  interest, 
"  I  know  your  mug,  all  right." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  me  before  ?  "  asked  Cherokee. 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I've  seen  your  picture  lots  of 
times." 

"Where?" 

The  boy  hesitated.  "  On  the  bureau  at  home,"  he 
answered. 

"  Let's  have  your  name,  if  you  please,  buddy." 

"  Robert  Lumsden.  The  picture  belongs  to  my 
mother.  She  puts  it  under  her  pillow  of  nights.  And 
once  I  saw  her  kiss  it.  I  wouldn't.  But  women  are 
that  way." 

Cherokee  rose  and  beckoned  to  Trinidad. 

"  Keep  this  boy  by  you  till  I  come  back,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  gain'  to  shed  these  Christmas  duds,  and  hitch  up 
my  sleigh.  I'm  goin'  to  take  this  kid  home." 

"Well,  infidel,"  said  Trinidad,  taking  Cherokee's 
vacant  chair,  "  and  so  you  are  too  superannuated  and 
effete  to  yearn  for  such  mockeries  as  candy  and  toys, 
it  seems." 

"  I  don't  like  you,"  said  Bobby,  with  acrimony. 
"  You  said  there  would  be  a  rifle.  A  fellow  can't  even 
smoke.  I  wish  I  was  at  home." 

Cherokee  drove  his  sleigh  to  the  door,  and  they  lifted 
Bobby  in  beside  him.  The  team  of  fine  horses  sprang 
away  prancingly  over  the  hard  snow.  Cherokee  had 
on  his  $500  overcoat  of  baby  sealskin.  The  laprobe 
that  he  drew  about  them  was  as  warm  as  velvet. 


286  Heart  of  the  West 

Bobby  slipped  a  cigarette  from  his  pocket  and  was 
trying  to  snap  a  match. 

"  Throw  that  cigarette  away,"  said  Cherokee,  in  a 
quiet  but  new  voice. 

Bobby  hesitated,  and  then  dropped  the  cylinder  over- 
board. 

"  Throw  the  box,  too,"  commanded  the  new  voice. 

More  reluctantly  the  boy  obeyed. 

"  Say,"  said  Bobby,  presently,  "  I  like  you.  I  don't 
know  why.  Nobody  never  made  me  do  anything  I  didn't 
want  to  do  before." 

"  Tell  me,  kid,"  said  Cherokee,  not  using  his  new 
voice,  "  are  you  sure  your  mother  kissed  that  picture 
that  looks  like  me?  " 

"  Dead  sure.     I  seen  her  do  it." 

66  Didn't  you  remark  somethin'  a  while  ago  about  want* 
ing  a  rifle  ?  " 

"You  bet  I  did.     Will  you  get  me  one?" 

"  To-morrow  —  silver-mounted." 

Cherokee  took  out  his  watch. 

"  Half -past  nine.  We'll  hit  the  Junction  plumb  on 
time  with  Christmas  Day.  Are  you  cold?  Sit  closer, 


XVIII 
A  CHAPARRAL  PRINCE 

NlNE  o'clock  at  last,  and  the  drudging  toil  of  the 
day  was  ended.  Lena  climbed  to  her  room  in  the  third 
half-story  of  the  Quarrymen's  Hotel.  Since  daylight 
she  had  slaved,  doing  the  work  of  a  full-grown  woman, 
scrubbing  the  floors,  washing  the  heavy  ironstone  plates 
and  cups,  making  the  beds,  and  supplying  the  insatiate 
demands  for  wood  and  water  in  that  turbulent  and  de- 
pressing hostelry. 

The  din  of  the  day's  quarrying  was  over  —  the  blast- 
ing and  drilling,  the  creaking  of  the  great  cranes,  the 
shouts  of  the  foremen,  the  backing  and  shifting  of  the 
flat-cars  hauling  the  heavy  blocks  of  limestone.  Down 
in  the  hotel  office  three  or  four  of  the  labourers  were 
growling  and  swearing  over  a  belated  game  of  checkers. 
Heavy  odours  of  stewed  meat,  hot  grease,  and  cheap 
coffee  hung  like  a  depressing  fog  about  the  house. 

Lena  lit  the  stump  of  a  candle  and  sat  limply  upon 
her  wooden  chair.  She  was  eleven  years  old,  thin  and 
ill-nourished.  Her  back  and  limbs  were  sore  and  ach- 
ing. But  the  ache  in  her  heart  made  the  biggest  trouble. 
The  last  straw  had  been  added  to  the  burden  upon  her 
small  shoulders.  They  had  taken  away  Grimm.  Al- 
ways at  night,  however  tired  she  might  be,  she  had 

287 


288  Heart  of  the  West 

turned  to  Grimm  for  comfort  and  hope.  Each  time  had 
Grimm  whispered  to  her  that  the  prince  or  the  fairy 
would  come  and  deliver  her  out  of  the  wicked  enchant- 
ment. Every  night  she  had  taken  fresh  courage  and 
strength  from  Grimm. 

To  whatever  tale  she  read  she  found  an  analogy  in 
her  own  condition.  The  woodcutter's  lost  child,  the  un- 
happy goose  girl,  the  persecuted  stepdaughter,  the  little 
maiden  imprisoned  in  the  witch's  hut  —  all  these  were 
but  transparent  disguises  for  Lena,  the  overworked 
kitchenmaid  in  the  Quarrymen's  Hotel.  And  always 
when  the  extremity  was  direst  came  the  good  fairy  or 
the  gallant  prince  to  the  rescue. 

So,  here  in  the  ogre's  castle,  enslaved  by  a  wicked 
spell,  Lena  had  leaned  upon  Grimm  and  waited,  long- 
ing for  the  powers  of  goodness  to  prevail.  But  on  the 
day  before  Mrs.  Maloney  had  found  the  book  in  her 
room  and  had  carried  it  away,  declaring  sharply  that 
it  would  not  do  for  servants  to  read  at  night ;  they  lost 
sleep  and  did  not  work  briskly  the  next  day.  Can  one 
only  eleven  years  old,  living  away  from  one's  mamma, 
and  never  having  any  time  to  play,  live  entirely  de- 
prived of  Grimm?  Just  try  it  once  and  you  will  see 
what  a  difficult  thing  it  is. 

Lena's  home  was  in  Texas,  away  up  among  the  little 
mountains  on  the  Pedernales  River,  in  a  little  town 
called  Fredericksburg.  They  are  all  German  people  who 
live  in  Fredericksburg.  Of  evenings  they  sit  at  little 
tables  along  the  sidewalk  and  drink  beer  and  play 
pinochle  and  scat.  They  are  very  thrifty  people. 


A  Chaparral  Prince  289 

Thriftiest  among  them  was  Peter  Hildesmuller,  Lena's 
father.  And  that  is  why  Lena  was  sent  to  work  in  the 
hotel  at  the  quarries,  thirty  miles  away.  She  earned 
three  dollars  every  week  there,  and  Peter  added  her 
wages  to  his  well-guarded  store.  Peter  had  an  ambition 
to  become  as  rich  as  his  neighbour,  Hugo  Heffelbauer, 
who  smoked  a  meerschaum  pipe  three  feet  long  and  had 
wiener  schnitzel  and  hassenpfeffer  for  dinner  every  day 
in  the  week.  And  now  Lena  was  quite  old  enough  to 
work  and  assist  in  the  accumulation  of  riches.  But 
conjecture,  if  you  can,  what  it  means  to  be  sentenced 
at  eleven  years  of  age  from  a  home  in  the  pleasant  little 
Rhine  village  to  hard  labour  in  the  ogre's  castle,  where 
you  must  fly  to  serve  the  ogres,  while  they  devour  cattle 
and  sheep,  growling  fiercely  as  they  stamp  white  lime- 
stone dust  from  their  great  shoes  for  you  to  sweep  and 
scour  with  your  weak,  aching  fingers.  And  then  —  to 
have  Grimm  taken  away  from  you ! 

Lena  raised  the  lid  of  an  old  empty  case  that  had 
once  contained  canned  corn  and  got  out  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  a  piece  of  pencil.  She  was  going  to  write  a  letter 
to  her  mamma.  Tommy  Ryan  was  going  to  post  it  for 
her  at  Ballinger's.  Tommy  was  seventeen,  worked  in 
the  quarries,  went  home  to  Ballinger's  every  night, 
and  was  now  waiting  in  the  shadows  under  Lena's  win- 
dow for  her  to  throw  the  letter  out  to  him.  That  was 
the  only  way  she  could  send  a  letter  to  Fredericks- 
burg.  Mrs.  Maloney  did  not  like  for  her  to  write  let- 
ters. 

The  stump  of  candle  was  burning  low,  so  Lena  has- 


290  Heart  of  the  West 

tily  bit  the  wood  from  around  the  lead  of  her  pencil 
and  began.     This  is  the  letter  she  wrote: 

DEAREST  MAMMA:  —  I  want  so  much  to  see  you.  And  Gretel 
and  Claus  and  Heinrich  and  little  Adolf.  I  am  so  tired.  I  want 
to  see  you.  To-day  I  was  slapped  by  Mrs.  Maloney  and  had  no 
supper.  I  could  not  bring  in  enough  wood,  for  my  hand  hurt. 
She  took  my  book  yesterday.  I  mean  "  Grimms's  Fairy  Tales," 
which  Uncle  Leo  gave  me.  It  did  not  hurt  any  one  for  me  to 
read  the  book.  I  try  to  work  as  well  as  I  can,  but  there  is  so 
much  to  do.  I  read  only  a  little  bit  every  night.  Dear  mamma, 
I  shall  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do.  Unless  you  send  for  me 
to-morrow  to  bring  me  home  I  shall  go  to  a  deep  place  I  know 
in  the  river  and  drown.  It  is  wicked  to  drown,  I  suppose,  but  I 
wanted  to  see  you,  and  there  is  no  one  else.  I  am  very  tired,  and 
Tommy  is  waiting  for  the  letter.  You  will  excuse  me,  mamma,  if 
I  do  it. 

Your  respectful  and  loving  daughter, 

LENA. 

Tommy  was  still  waiting  faithfully  when  the  letter 
was  concluded,  and  when  Lena  dropped  it  out  she  saw 
him  pick  it  up  and  start  up  the  steep  hillside.  With- 
out undressing  she  blew  out  the  candle  and  curled  her- 
self upon  the  mattress  on  the  floor. 

At  10 :30  o'clock  old  man  Ballinger  came  out  of  his 
house  in  his  stocking  feet  and  leaned  over  the  gate, 
smoking  his  pipe.  He  looked  down  the  big  road,  white 
in  the  moonshine,  and  rubbed  one  ankle  with  the  toe  of 
his  other  foot.  It  was  time  for  the  Fredericksburg  mail 
to  come  pattering  up  the  road. 

Old  man  Ballinger  had  waited  only  a  few  minutes 
when  he  heard  the  lively  hoofbeats  of  Fritz's  team  of 
little  black  mules,  and  very  soon  afterward  his  covered 


A  Chaparral  Prince  291 

spring  wagon  stood  in  front  of  the  gate.  Fritz's  big 
spectacles  flashed  in  the  moonlight  and  his  tremendous 
voice  shouted  a  greeting  to  the  postmaster  of  Ballinger's. 
The  mail-carrier  jumped  out  and  took  the  bridles  from 
the  mules,  for  he  always  fed  them  oats  at  Ballinger's. 

While  the  mules  were  eating  from  their  feed  bags 
old  man  Ballinger  brought  out  the  mail  sack  and  threw 
it  into  the  wagon. 

Fritz  Bergmann  was  a  man  of  three  sentiments  — 
or  to  be  more  accurate  —  four,  the  pair  of  mules  de- 
serving to  be  reckoned  individually.  Those  mules  were 
the  chief  interest  and  joy  of  his  existence.  Next  came 
the  Emperor  of  Germany  and  Lena  Hildesmuller. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Fritz,  when  he  was  ready  to  start, 
"  contains  the  sack  a  letter  to  Frau  Hildesmuller  from 
the  little  Lena  at  the  quarries?  One  came  in  the  last 
mail  to  say  that  she  is  a  little  sick,  already.  Her  mamma 
is  very  anxious  to  hear  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  old  man  Ballinger,  "  thar's  a  letter  for 
Mrs.  Helterskelter,  or  some  sich  name.  Tommy  Ryan 
brung  it  over  when  he  come.  Her  little  gal  workin' 
over  thar,  you  say  ?  " 

"  In  the  hotel,"  shouted  Fritz,  as  he  gathered  up  the 
lines ;  "  eleven  years  old  and  not  bigger  as  a  frank- 
furter. The  close-fist  of  a  Peter  Hildesmuller !  —  some 
day  shall  I  with  a  big  club  pound  that  man's  dummkopf 

—  all   in   and   out  the   town.      Perhaps   in   this   letter 
Lena  will  say  that  she  is  yet  feeling  better.     So,  her 
mamma  will  be  glad.     Auf  wiedersehen,  Herr  Ballinger 

—  your  f eets  will  take  cold  out  in  the  night  air." 


292  Heart  of  the  West 

"  So  long,  Fritz y,"  said  old  man  Ballinger.  "  You 
got  a  nice  cool  night  for  your  drive." 

Up  the  road  went  the  little  black  mules  at  their  steady 
trot,  while  Fritz  thundered  at  them  occasional  words  of 
endearment  and  cheer. 

These  fancies  occupied  the  mind  of  the  mail-carrier 
until  he  reached  the  big  post  oak  forest,  eight  miles 
from  Ballinger's.  Here  his  ruminations  were  scattered 
by  the  sudden  flash  and  report  of  pistols  and  a  whoop- 
ing as  if  from  a  whole  tribe  of  Indians.  A  band  of 
galloping  centaurs  closed  in  around  the  mail  wagon. 
One  of  them  leaned  over  the  front  wheel,  covered  the 
driver  with  his  revolver,  and  ordered  him  to  stop. 
Others  caught  at  the  bridles  of  Donder  and  Blitzen. 

"  Donnerwetter ! "  shouted  Fritz,  with  all  his  tre- 
mendous voice — "  wass  ist?  Release  your  hands  from 
dose  mules.  Ve  vas  der  United  States  mail !  " 

"  Hurry  up,  Dutch ! "  drawled  a  melancholy  voice. 
"  Don't  you  know  when  you're  in  a  stick-up  ?  Reverse 
your  mules  and  climb  out  of  the  cart." 

It  is  due  to  the  breadth  of  Hondo  Bill's  demerit  and 
the  largeness  of  his  achievements  to  state  that  the  hold- 
ing up  of  the  Fredericksburg  mail  was  not  perpetrated 
by  way  of  an  exploit.  As  the  lion  while  in  the  pursuit 
of  prey  commensurate  to  his  prowess  might  set  a  frivo- 
lous foot  upon  a  casual  rabbit  in  his  path,  so  Hondo 
Bill  and  his  gang  had  swooped  sportively  upon  the  pa- 
cific transport  of  Meinherr  Fritz. 

The  real  work  of  their  sinister  night  ride  was  over. 
Fritz  and  his  mail  bag  and  his  mules  came  as  a  gentle 


A  Chaparral  Prince  290 

relaxation,  grateful  after  the  arduous  duties  of  their 
profession.  Twenty  miles  to  the  southeast  stood  a  train 
with  a  killed  engine,  hysterical  passengers  and  a  looted 
express  and  mail  car.  That  represented  the  serious  oc- 
cupation of  Hondo  Bill  and  his  gang.  With  a  fairly  rich 
prize  of  currency  and  silver  the  robbers  were  making  a 
wide  detour  to  the  west  through  the  less  populous  coun- 
try, intending  to  seek  safety  in  Mexico  by  means  of 
some  fordable  spot  on  the  Rio  Grande.  The  booty  from 
the  train  had  melted  the  desperate  bushrangers  to  jovial 
and  happy  skylarkers. 

Trembling  with  outraged  dignity  and  no  little  per- 
sonal apprehension,  Fritz  climbed  out  to  the  road  after 
replacing  his  suddenly  removed  spectacles.  The  band 
had  dismounted  and  were  singing,  capering,  and  whoop- 
ing, thus  expressing  their  satisfied  delight  in  the  life 
of  a  jolly  outlaw.  Rattlesnake  Rogers,  who  stood  at  the 
heads  of  the  mules,  jerked  a  little  too  vigorously  at  the 
rein  of  the  tender-mouthed  Bonder,  who  reared  and 
emitted  a  loud,  protesting  snort  of  pain.  Instantly 
Fritz,  with  a  scream  of  anger,  flew  at  the  bulky  Rogers 
and  began  to  assiduously  pommel  that  surprised  free- 
booter with  his  fists. 

"  Villain!  "  shouted  Fritz,  "  dog,  bigstiff!  Dot  mule 
he  has  a  soreness  by  his  mouth.  I  vill  knock  off  your 
shoulders  mit  your  head  —  robbermans !  " 

"  Yi-yi ! "  howled  Rattlesnake,  roaring  with  laugh- 
ter and  ducking  his  head,  "  somebody  git  this  here  sour- 
krout  ofPn  me !  " 

One  of  the  band  yanked  Fritz  back  by  the  coat-tail, 


294  Heart  of  the  West 

and  the  woods  rang  with  Rattlesnake's  vociferous  com- 
ments. 

"  The  dog-goned  little  Wienerwurst,"  he  yelled,  ami- 
ably. "  He's  not  so  much  of  a  skunk,  for  a  Dutchman. 
Took  up  for  his  animile  plum  quick,  didn't  he?  I  like 
to  see  a  man  like  his  hoss,  even  if  it  is  a  mule.  The 
dad-blamed  little  Limburger  he  went  for  me,  didn't  he! 
Whoa,  now,  muley  —  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  your  mouth 
agin  any  more." 

Perhaps  the  mail  would  not  have  been  tampered  with 
had  not  Ben  Moody,  the  lieutenant,  possessed  certain 
wisdom  that  seemed  to  promise  more  spoils. 

"  Say,  Cap,"  he  said,  addressing  Hondo  Bill,  "  there's 
liable  to  be  good  pickings  in  these  mail  sacks.  I've  done 
some  hoss  tradin'  with  these  Dutchmen  around  Freder- 
icksburg,  and  I  know  the  style  of  the  varmints.  There's 
big  money  goes  through  the  mails  to  that  town.  Them 
Dutch  risk  a  thousand  dollars  sent  wrapped  in  a  piece 
of  paper  before  they'd  pay  the  banks  to  handle  the 
money." 

Hondo  Bill,  six  feet  two,  gentle  of  voice  and  impul- 
sive in  action,  was  dragging  the  sacks  from  the  rear 
of  the  wagon  before  Moody  had  finished  his  speech.  A 
knife  shone  in  his  hand,  and  they  heard  the  ripping 
sound  as  it  bit  through  the  tough  canvas.  The  out- 
laws crowded  around  arid  began  tearing  open  letters 
and  packages,  enlivening  their  labours  by  swearing 
affably  at  the  writers,  who  seemed  to  have  conspired  to 
confute  the  prediction  of  Ben  Moody.  Not  a  dollar 
was  found  in  the  Fredericksburg  mail. 


A  Chaparral  Prince  295 

**  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  Hondo 
Bill  to  the  mail-carrier  in  solemn  tones,  "  to  be  pack- 
ing around  such  a  lot  of  old,  trashy  paper  as  this.  What 
d'you  mean  by  it,  anyhow?  Where  do  you  Butchers 
keep  your  money  at?  " 

The  Ballinger  mail  sack  opened  like  a  cocoon  under 
Hondo's  knife.  It  contained  but  a  handful  of  mail. 
Fritz  had  been  fuming  with  terror  and  excitement  until 
this  sack  was  reached.  He  now  remembered  Lena's  letter, 
He  addressed  the  leader  of  the  band,  asking  that  that 
particular  missive  be  spared. 

"  Much  obliged,  Dutch,"  he  said  to  the  disturbed  car- 
rier. "  I  guess  that's  the  letter  we  want.  Got  spon- 
dulicks in  it,  ain't  it?  Here  she  is.  Make  a  light, 
boys." 

Hondo  found  and  tore  open  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Hildes- 
muller.  The  others  stood  about,  lighting  twisted-up  let- 
ters one  from  another.  Hondo  gazed  with  mute 
disapproval  at  the  single  sheet  of  paper  covered  with: 
the  angular  German  script. 

"  Whatever  is  this  you've  humbugged  us  with, 
Dutchy?  You  call  this  here  a  valuable  letter?  That's 
a  mighty  low-down  trick  to  play  on  your  friends  what 
come  along  to  help  you  distribute  your  mail." 

"  That's  Chiny  writin',"  said  Sandy  Grundy,  peer- 
ing over  Hondo's  shoulder. 

"  You're  off  your  kazip,"  declared  another  of  the 
gang,  an  effective  youth,  covered  with  silk  handker- 
chiefs and  nickel  plating.  "  That's  shorthand.  I  seen 
''em  do  it  once  in  court." 


296  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Ach,  no,  no,  no  —  dot  is  German,"  said  Fritz.  "  It 
is  no  more  as  a  little  girl  writing  a  letter  to  her  mamma. 
One  poor  little  girl,  sick  and  vorking  hard  avay  from 
home.  Ach!  it  is  a  shame.  Good  Mr.  Robberman,  you 
vill  please  let  me  have  dot  letter?  " 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  take  us  for,  old  Pretzels?  " 
said  Hondo  with  sudden  and  surprising  severity.  "  You 
ain't  presumin'  to  insinuate  that  we  gents  ain't  pos- 
sessed of  sufficient  politeness  for  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  miss's  health,  are  you?  Now,  you  go  on,  and  you 
read  that  scratchin'  out  loud  and  in  plain  United  States 
language  to  this  here  company  of  educated  society." 

Hondo  twirled  his  six-shooter  by  its  trigger  guard 
and  stood  towering  above  the  little  German,  who  at  once 
began  to  read  the  letter,  translating  the  simple  words 
into  English.  The  gang  of  rovers  stood  in  absolute 
silence,  listening  intently. 

"  How  old  is  that  kid?  "  asked  Hondo  when  the  let- 
ter was  done. 

"  Eleven,"  said  Fritz. 

"  And  where  is  she  at  ?  " 

"  At  dose  rock  quarries  —  working.  Ach,  mem  Gott 
—  little  Lena,  she  speak  of  drowning.  I  do  not  know 
if  she  vill  do  it,  but  if  she  shall  I  schwear  I  vill  dot 
Peter  Hildesmuller  shoot  mit  a  gun." 

"  You  Butchers,"  said  Hondo  Bill,  his  voice  swell- 
ing with  fine  contempt,  "  make  me  plenty  tired.  Hirin' 
out  your  kids  to  work  when  they  ought  to  be  playin' 
dolls  in  the  sand.  You're  a  hell  of  a  sect  of  people.  I 
reckon  we'll  fix  your  clock  for  a  while  just  to  show 


A  Chaparral  Prince  297 

what  we  think  of  your  old  cheesy  nation.    Here,  boys !  " 

Hondo  Bill  parleyed  aside  briefly  with  his  band,  and 
then  they  seized  Fritz  and  conveyed  him  off  the  road 
to  one  side.  Here  they  bound  him  fast  to  a  tree  with 
a  couple  of  lariats.  His  team  they  tied  to  another  tree 
near  by. 

"  We  ain't  going  to  hurt  you  bad,"  said  Hondo 
reassuringly.  "  'Twon't  hurt  you  to  be  tied  up  for  a 
while.  We  will  now  pass  you  the  time  of  day,  as  it  is 
up  to  us  to  depart.  Ausgespielt  —  nixcumrous,  Dutchy. 
Don't  get  any  more  impatience." 

Fritz  heard  a  great  squeaking  of  saddles  as  the  men 
mounted  their  horses.  Then  a  loud  yell  and  a  great 
clatter  of  hoofs  as  they  galloped  pell-mell  back  along  the 
Fredericksburg  road. 

For  more  than  two  hours  Fritz  sat  against  his  tree, 
tightly  but  not  painfully  bound.  Then  from  the  re- 
action after  his  exciting  adventure  he  sank  into  slum- 
ber. How  long  he  slept  he  knew  not,  but  he  was  at 
last  awakened  by  a  rough  shake.  Hands  were  untying 
his  ropes.  He  was  lifted  to  his  feet,  dazed,  confused 
in  mind,  and  weary  of  body.  Rubbing  his  eyes,  he 
looked  and  saw  that  he  was  again  in  the  midst  of  the 
same  band  of  terrible  bandits.  They  shoved  him  up 
to  the  seat  of  his  wagon  and  placed  the  lines  in  his 
hands. 

"  Hit  it  out  for  home,  Dutch,"  said  Hondo  Bill's  voice 
commandingly.  "  You've  given  us  lots  of  trouble  and 
we're  pleased  to  see  the  back  of  your  neck.  Spiel! 
Zwei  bier !  Vamoose  I  " 


298  Heart  of  the  West 

Hondo  reached  out  and  gave  Blitzen  a  smart  cut  with 
his  quirt. 

The  little  mules  sprang  ahead,  glad  to  be  moving 
again.  Fritz  urged  them  along,  himself  dizzy  and  mud- 
dled over  his  fearful  adventure. 

According  to  schedule  time,  he  should  have  reached 
Fredericksburg  at  daylight.  As  it  was,  he  drove  down 
the  long  street  of  the  town  at  eleven  o'clock  A.  M. 
He  had  to  pass  Peter  Hildesmuller's  house  on  his  way 
to  the  post-office.  He  stopped  his  team  at  the  gate  and 
called.  But  Frau  Hildesmuller  was  watching  for  him, 
Out  rushed  the  whole  family  of  Hildesmullers. 

Frau  Hildesmuller,  fat  and  flushed,  inquired  if  he 
had  a  letter  from  Lena,  and  then  Fritz  raised  his  voice 
and  told  the  tale  of  his  adventure.  He  told  the  con- 
tents of  the  letter  that  the  robber  had  made  him  read, 
and  then  Frau  Hildesmuller  broke  into  wild  weeping. 
Her  little  Lena  drown  herself!  Why  had  they  sent  her 
from  home?  What  could  be  done?  Perhaps  it  would 
be  too  late  by  the  time  they  could  send  for  her  now. 
Peter  Hildesmuller  dropped  his  meerschaum  on  the  walk 
and  it  shivered  into  pieces. 

"  Woman !  "  he  roared  at  his  wife,  "  why  did  you 
let  that  child  go  away?  It  is  your  fault  if  she  comes 
home  to  us  no  more." 

Every  one  knew  that  it  was  Peter  Hildesmuller's 
fault,  so  they  paid  no  attention  to  his  words. 

A  moment  afterward  a  strange,  faint  voice  was  heard 
to  call :  "  Mamma !  "  Frau  Hildesmuller  at  first  thought 
it  was  Lena's  spirit  calling,  and  then  she  rushed  to  the 


A  Chaparral  Prince  299 

rear  of  Fritz's  covered  wagon,  and,  with  a  loud  shriek 
of  joy,  caught  up  Lena  herself,  covering  her  pale  little 
face  with  kisses  and  smothering  her  with  hugs.  Lena's 
eyes  were  heavy  with  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaustion, 
but  she  smiled  and  lay  close  to  the  one  she  had  longed 
to  see.  There  among  the  mail  sacks,  covered  in  a  nest 
of  strange  blankets  and  comforters,  she  had  lain  asleep 
until  wakened  by  the  voices  around  her. 

Fritz  stared  at  her  with  eyes  that  bulged  behind  his 
spectacles. 

"  Gott  in  Himmel !  "  he  shouted.  "  How  did  you  get 
in  that  wagon?  Am  I  going  crazy  as  well  as  to  be 
murdered  and  hanged  by  robbers  this  day  ?  " 

"  You  brought  her  to  us,  Fritz,"  cried  Frau  Hil- 
desmuller.  "  How  can  we  ever  thank  you  enough  ?  " 

"  Tell  mamma  how  you  came  in  Fritz's  wagon,"  said 
Frau  Hildesmuller. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lena.  "  But  I  know  how  I  got 
away  from  the  hotel.  The  Prince  brought  me." 

"  By  the  Emperor's  crown !  "  shouted  Fritz,  "  we  are 
all  going  crazy." 

"  I  always  knew  he  would  come,"  said  Lena,  sitting 
down  on  her  bundle  of  bedclothes  on  the  sidewalk. 
"  Last  night  he  came  with  his  armed  knights  and  cap- 
tured the  ogre's  castle.  They  broke  the  dishes  and 
kicked  down  the  doors.  They  pitched  Mr.  Maloney 
into  a  barrel  of  rain  water  and  threw  flour  all  over 
Mrs.  Maloney.  The  workmen  in  the  hotel  jumped  out 
of  the  windows  and  ran  into  the  woods  when  the  knights 
began  firing  their  guns.  They  wakened  me  up  and  I 


300  Heart  of  the  West 

peeped  down  the  stair.  And  then  the  Prince  came  up 
and  wrapped  me  in  the  bedclothes  and  carried  me  out. 
He  was  so  tall  and  strong  and  fine.  His  face  was  as 
rough  as  a  scrubbing  brush,  and  he  talked  soft  and 
kind  and  smelled  of  schnapps.  He  took  me  on  his  horse 
before  him  and  we  rode  away  among  the  knights.  He 
held  me  close  and  I  went  to  sleep  that  way,  and  didn't 
wake  up  till  I  got  home." 

"  Rubbish !  "  cried  Fritz  Bergmann.  "  Fairy  tales ! 
How  did  you  come  from  the  quarries  to  my  wagon  ?  " 

"  The  Prince  brought  me,"  said  Lena,  confidently. 

And  to  this  day  the  good  people  of  Fredericksburg 
haven't  been  able  to  make  her  give  any  other  explana- 
tion. 


XIX 

THE  REFORMATION  OF  CALLIOPE 

CALLIOPE  CATESBY  was  in  his  humours  again. 
Ennui  was  upon  him.  This  goodly  promontory,  the 
earth  —  particularly  that  portion  of  it  known  as  Quick- 
sand —  was  to  him  no  more  than  a  pestilent  congrega- 
tion of  vapours.  Overtaken  by  the  megrims,  the  phi- 
losopher may  seek  relief  in  soliloquy ;  my  lady  find  solace 
in  tears ;  the  flaccid  Easterner  scold  at  the  millinery  bills 
of  his  women  folk.  Such  recourse  was  insufficient  to  the 
denizens  of  Quicksand.  Calliope,  especially,  was  wont 
to  express  his  ennui  according  to  his  lights. 

Over  night  Calliope  had  hung  out  signals  of  ap- 
proaching low  spirits.  He  had  kicked  his  own  dog  on 
the  porch  of  the  Occidental  Hotel,  and  refused  to  apolo- 
gise. He  had  become  capricious  and  fault-finding  in 
conversation.  While  strolling  about  he  reached  often 
for  twigs  of  mesquite  and  chewed  the  leaves  fiercely. 
That  was  always  an  ominous  act.  Another  symptom 
alarming  to  those  who  were  familiar  with  the  different 
stages  of  his  doldrums  was  his  increasing  politeness  and 
a  tendency  to  use  formal  phrases.  A  husky  softness 
succeeded  the  usual  penetrating  drawl  in  his  tones.  A 
dangerous  courtesy  marked  his  manners.  Later,  his 

smile  became  crooked,  the  left  side  of  his  mouth  slant- 

301 


302  Heart  of  the  West 

ing  upward,  and  Quicksand  got  ready  to  stand  from 
under. 

At  this  stage  Calliope  generally  began  to  drink. 
Finally,  about  midnight,  he  was  seen  going  homeward, 
saluting  those  whom  he  met  with  exaggerated  but  inof- 
fensive courtesy.  Not  yet  was  Calliope's  melancholy  at 
the  danger  point.  He  would  seat  himself  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  room  he  occupied  over  Silvester's  tonsorial 
parlours  and  there  chant  lugubrious  and  tuneless  ballads 
until  morning,  accompanying  the  noises  by  appropriate 
maltreatment  of  a  jingling  guitar.  More  magnanimous 
than  Nero,  he  would  thus  give  musical  warning  of  the 
forthcoming  municipal  upheaval  that  Quicksand  was 
scheduled  to  endure. 

A  quiet,  amiable  man  was  Calliope  Catesby  at  other 
times  —  quiet  to  indolence,  and  amiable  to  worthless- 
ness.  At  best  he  was  a  loafer  and  a  nuisance ;  at  worst, 
he  was  the  Terror  of  Quicksand.  His  ostensible  occu- 
pation was  something  subordinate  in  the  real  estate  line ; 
he  drove  the  beguiled  Easterner  in  buckboards  out  to 
look  over  lots  and  ranch  property.  Originally  he  came 
from  one  of  the  Gulf  States,  his  lank  six  feet,  slurring 
rhythm  of  speech,  and  sectional  idioms  giving  evidence 
of  his  birthplace. 

And  yet,  after  taking  on  Western  adjustments,  this 
languid  pine-box  whittler,  cracker  barrel  hugger,  shady 
corner  lounger  of  the  cotton  fields  and  sumac  hills  of  the 
South  became  famed  as  a  bad  man  among  men  who  had 
made  a  life-long  study  of  the  art  of  truculence. 

At  nine  the  next  morning  Calliope  was  fit.     Inspired 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope          303 

by  his  own  barbarous  melodies  and  the  contents  of  his 
jug,  he  was  ready  primed  to  gather  fresh  laurels  from 
the  diffident  brow  of  Quicksand.  Encircled  and  criss- 
crossed with  cartridge  belts,  abundantly  garnished  with 
revolvers,  and  copiously  drunk,  he  poured  forth  into 
Quicksand's  main  street.  Too  chivalrous  to  surprise 
and  capture  a  town  by  silent  sortie,  he  paused  at  the 
nearest  corner  and  emitted  his  slogan  —  that  fearful, 
brassy  yell,  so  reminiscent  of  the  steam  piano,  that  had 
gained  for  him  the  classic  appellation  that  had  super- 
seded his  own  baptismal  name.  Following  close  upon 
his  vociferation  came  three  shots  from  his  forty-five  by 
way  of  limbering  up  the  guns  and  testing  his  aim.  A 
yellow  dog,  the  personal  property  of  Colonel  Swazey, 
the  proprietor  of  the  Occidental,  fell  feet  upward  in 
the  dust  with  one  farewell  yelp.  A  Mexican  who  was 
crossing  the  street  from  the  Blue  Front  grocery  carry- 
ing in  his  hand  a  bottle  of  kerosene,  was  stimulated  to 
a  sudden  and  admirable  burst  of  speed,  still  grasping 
the  neck  of  the  shattered  bottle.  The  new  gilt  weather- 
cock on  Judge  Riley's  lemon  and  ultramarine  two-story 
residence  shivered,  flapped,  and  hung  by  a  splinter,  the 
sport  of  the  wanton  breezes. 

The  artillery  was  in  trim.  Calliope's  hand  was  steady. 

The  high,  calm  ecstasy  of  habitual  battle  was  upon  him, 

though  slightly  embittered  by  the  sadness  of  Alexander 

'  in  that  his  conquests  were  limited  to  the  small  world 

of  Quicksand. 

Down  the  street  went  Calliope,  shooting  right  and 
left.  Glass  fell  like  hail ;  dogs  vamosed ;  chickens  flew, 


304  Heart  of  the  West 

squawking;  feminine  voices  shrieked  concernedly  to 
youngsters  at  large.  The  din  was  perforated  at  in- 
tervals by  the  staccato  of  the  Terror's  guns,  and  was 
drowned  periodically  by  the  brazen  screech  that  Quick- 
sand knew  so  well.  The  occasions  of  Calliope's  low 
spirits  were  legal  holidays  in  Quicksand.  All  along  the 
main  street  in  advance  of  his  coming  clerks  were  putting 
up  shutters  and  closing  doors.  Business  would  lan- 
guish for  a  space.  The  right  of  way  was  Calliope's, 
and  as  he  advanced,  observing  the  dearth  of  opposition 
and  the  few  opportunities  for  distraction,  his  ennui 
perceptibly  increased. 

But  some  four  squares  farther  down  lively  prepara- 
tions were  being  made  to  minister  to  Mr.  Catesby's  love 
for  interchange  of  compliments  and  repartee.  On  the 
previous  night  numerous  messengers  had  hastened  to  ad- 
vise Buck  Patterson,  the  city  marshal,  of  Calliope's  im- 
pending eruption.  The  patience  of  that  official,  often 
strained  in  extending  leniency  toward  the  disturber's 
misdeeds,  had  been  overtaxed.  In  Quicksand  some  in- 
dulgence was  accorded  the  natural  ebullition  of  human 
nature.  Providing  that  the  lives  of  the  more  useful 
citizens  were  not  recklessly  squandered,  or  too  much 
property  needlessly  laid  waste,  the  community  sentiment 
was  against  a  too  strict  enforcement  of  the  law.  But 
Calliope  had  raised  the  limit.  His  outbursts  had  been 
too  frequent  and  too  violent  to  come  within  the  classi- 
fication of  a  normal  and  sanitary  relaxation  of  spirit. 

Buck  Patterson  had  been  expecting  and  awaiting  in 
his  little  ten-by-twelve  frame  office  that  preliminary  yell 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope          305 

announcing  that  Calliope  was  feeling  blue.  When  the 
signal  came  the  City  Marshal  rose  to  his  feet  and 
buckled  on  his  guns.  Two  deputy  sheriffs  and  three 
citizens  who  had  proven  the  edible  qualities  of  fire  also 
stood  up,  ready  to  bandy  with  Calliope's  leaden  joculari- 
ties. 

"  Gather  that  fellow  in,"  said  Buck  Patterson,  setting 
forth  the  lines  of  the  campaign.  "  Don't  have  no  talk, 
but  shoot  as  soon  as  you  can  get  a  show.  Keep  behind 
cover  and  bring  him  down.  He's  a  nogood  'un.  It's 
up  to  Calliope  to  turn  up  his  toes  this  time,  I  reckon. 
Go  to  him  all  spraddled  out,  boys.  And  don't  git  too 
reckless,  for  what  Calliope  shoots  at  he  hits." 

Buck  Patterson,  tall,  muscular,  and  solemn-faced,  with 
his  bright  "  City  Marshal "  badge  shining  on  the  breast 
of  his  blue  flannel  shirt,  gave  his  posse  directions  for 
the  onslaught  upon  Calliope.  The  plan  was  to  accom- 
plish the  downfall  of  the  Quicksand  Terror  without  loss 
to  the  attacking  party,  if  possible. 

The  splenetic  Calliope,  unconscious  of  retributive 
plots,  was  steaming  down  the  channel,  cannonading  on 
either  side,  when  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  breakers 
ahead.  The  city  marshal  and  one  of  the  deputies  rose 
up  behind  some  dry-goods  boxes  half  a  square  to  the 
front  and  opened  fire.  At  the  same  time  the  rest  of 
the  posse,  divided,  shelled  him  from  two  side  streets  up 
which  they  were  cautiously  manoeuvring  from  a  well- 
executed  detour. 

The  first  volley  broke  the  lock  of  one  of  Calliope's 
guns,  cut  a  neat  underbit  in  his  right  ear,  and  exploded 


306  Heart  of  the  West 

a  cartridge  in  his  crossbelt,  scorching  his  ribs  as  it 
burst.  Feeling  braced  up  by  this  unexpected  tonic  to 
his  spiritual  depression,  Calliope  executed  a  fortissimo 
note  from  his  upper  register,  and  returned  the  fire  like 
an  echo.  The  upholders  of  the  law  dodged  at  his  flash, 
but  a  trifle  too  late  to  save  one  of  the  deputies  a  bullet 
just  above  the  elbow,  and  the  marshal  a  bleeding  cheek 
from  a  splinter  that  a  ball  tore  from  the  box  he  had 
ducked  behind. 

And  now  Calliope  met  the  enemy's  tactics  in  kind. 
Choosing  with  a  rapid  eye  the  street  from  which  the 
weakest  and  least  accurate  fire  had  come,  he  invaded 
it  at  a  double-quick,  abandoning  the  unprotected  middle 
of  the  street.  With  rare  cunning  the  opposing  force 
in  that  direction  —  one  of  the  deputies  and  two  of  the 
valorous  volunteers  —  waited,  concealed  by  beer  barrels, 
until  Calliope  had  passed  their  retreat,  and  then  pep- 
pered him  from  the  rear.  In  another  moment  they 
were  reinforced  by  the  marshal  and  his  other  men,  and 
then  Calliope  felt  that  in  order  to  successfully  prolong 
the  delights  of  the  controversy  he  must  find  some  means 
of  reducing  the  great  odds  against  him.  His  eye  fell 
upon  a  structure  that  seemed  to  hold  out  this  promise, 
providing  he  could  reach  it. 

Not  far  away  was  the  little  railroad  station,  its  build- 
ing a  strong  box  house,  ten  by  twenty  feet,  resting  upon 
a  platform  four  feet  above  ground.  Windows  were  in 
each  of  its  walls.  Something  like  a  fort  it  might  be- 
come to  a  man  thus  sorely  pressed  by  superior  numbers. 

Calliope  made  a  bold  and  rapid  spurt  for  it,  the  ma* 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope         307 

shal's  crowd  "  smoking  "  him  as  he  ran.  He  reached 
the  haven  in  safety,  the  station  agent  leaving  the  build- 
ing by  a  window,  like  a  flying  squirrel,  as  the  garrison 
entered  the  door. 

Patterson  and  his  supporters  halted  under  protec- 
tion of  a  pile  of  lumber  and  held  consultations.  In  the 
station  was  an  unterrihed  desperado  who  was  an  excellent 
shot  and  carried  an  abundance  of  ammunition.  For 
thirty  yards  on  each  side  of  the  besieged  was  a  stretch  of 
bare,  open  ground.  It  was  a  sure  thing  that  the  man 
who  attempted  to  enter  that  unprotected  area  would  be 
stopped  by  one  of  Calliope's  bullets. 

The  city  marshal  was  resolved.  He  had  decided  that 
Calliope  Catesby  should  no  more  wake  the  echoes  of 
Quicksand  with  his  strident  whoop.  He  had  so  an- 
nounced. Officially  and  personally  he  felt  imperatively 
bound  to  put  the  soft  pedal  on  that  instrument  of  dis- 
cord. It  played  bad  tunes. 

Standing  near  was  a  hand  truck  used  in  the  ma- 
nipulation of  small  freight.  It  stood  by  a  shed  full  of 
sacked  wool,  a  consignment  from  one  of  the  sheep 
ranches.  On  this  truck  the  marshal  and  his  men  piled 
three  heavy  sacks  of  wool.  Stooping  low,  Buck  Pat- 
terson started  for  Calliope's  fort,  slowly  pushing  this 
loaded  truck  before  him  for  protection.  The  posse, 
scattering  broadly,  stood  ready  to  nip  the  besieged  in 
case  he  should  show  himself  in  an  effort  to  repel  the 
juggernaut  of  justice  that  was  creeping  upon  him. 
Only  once  did  Calliope  make  demonstration.  He  fired 
from  a  window,  and  some  tufts  of  wool  spurted  from  the 


308  Heart  of  the  West 

marshal's  trustworthy  bulwark.  The  return  shots  from 
the  posse  pattered  against  the  window  frame  of  the 
fort.  No  loss  resulted  on  either  side. 

The  marshal  was  too  deeply  engrossed  in  steering  his 
protected  battleship  to  be  aware  of  the  approach  of 
the  morning  train  until  he  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
platform.  The  train  was  coming  up  on  the  other  side 
of  it.  It  stopped  only  one  minute  at  Quicksand.  What 
an  opportunity  it  would  offer  to  Calliope !  He  had  only 
to  step  out  the  other  door,  mount  the  train,  and  away. 

Abandoning  his  breastworks,  Buck,  with  his  gun 
ready,  dashed  up  the  steps  and  into  the  room,  driving 
open  the  closed  door  with  one  heave  of  his  weighty  shoul- 
der. The  members  of  the  posse  heard  one  shot  fired  in- 
side, and  then  there  was  silence. 

At  length  the  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes.  After 
a  blank  space  he  again  could  see  and  hear  and  feel 
and  think.  Turning  his  eyes  about,  he  found  himself 
lying  on  a  wooden  bench.  A  tall  man  with  a  perplexed 
countenance,  wearing  a  big  badge  with  "  City  Marshal  " 
engraved  upon  it,  stood  over  him.  A  little  old  woman  in 
black,  with  a  wrinkled  face  and  sparkling  black  eyes, 
was  holding  a  wet  handkerchief  against  one  of  his 
temples.  He  was  trying  to  get  these  facts  fixed  in  his 
mind  and  connected  with  past  events,  when  the  old  woman 
began  to  talk. 

"  There  now,  great,  big,  strong  man !  That  bullet 
never  tetched  ye!  Jest  skeeted  along  the  side  of  your 
head  and  sort  of  paralysed  ye  for  a  spell.  I've  heerd 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope          309 

of  sech  things  afore;  cun-cussion  is  what  they  names 
it.  Abel  Wadkins  used  to  kill  squirrels  that  way  — 
barkin'  'em,  Abe  called  it.  You  jest  been  barked,  sir, 
and  you'll  be  all  right  in  a  little  bit.  Feel  lots  better 
already,  don't  ye!  You  just  lay  still  a  while  longer 
and  let  me  bathe  your  head.  You  don't  know  me,  I 
reckon,  and  'tain't  surprisin'  that  you  shouldn't.  I  come 
in  on  that  train  from  Alabama  to  see  my  son.  Big  son, 
ain't  he?  Lands!  you  wouldn't  hardly  think  he'd  ever 
been  a  baby,  would  ye?  This  is  my  son,  sir." 

Half  turning,  the  old  woman  looked  up  at  the  stand- 
ing man,  her  worn  face  lighting  with  a  proud  and  won- 
derful smile.  She  reached  out  one  veined  and  calloused 
hand  and  took  one  of  her  son's.  Then  smiling  cheerily 
down  at  the  prostrate  man,  she  continued  to  dip  the 
handkerchief,  in  the  waiting-room  tin  washbasin  and 
gently  apply  it  to  his  temple.  She  had  the  benevolent 
garrulity  of  old  age. 

"  I  ain't  seen  my  son  before,"  she  continued,  "  in 
eight  years.  One  of  my  nephews,  Elkanah  Price,  he's 
a  conductor  on  one  of  them  railroads  and  he  got  me 
a  pass  to  come  out  here.  I  can  stay  a  whole  week  on 
it,  and  then  it'll  take  me  back  again.  Jest  think,  now, 
that  little  boy  of  mine  has  got  to  be  a  officer  —  a  city 
marshal  of  a  whole  town!  That's  somethin'  like  a  con- 
stable, ain't  it?  I  never  knowed  he  was  a  officer;  he 
didn't  say  nothin'  about  it  in  his  letters.  I  reckon  he 
thought  his  old  mother'd  be  skeered  about  the  danger  he 
was  in.  But,  laws !  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  to  git 
skeered.  'Tain't  no  use.  I  heard  them  guns  a-shootin* 


310  Heart  of  the  West 

while  I  was  gittin'  off  them  cars,  and  I  see  smoke  a- 
comin'  out  of  the  depot,  but  I  jest  walked  right  along. 
Then  I  see  son's  face  lookin'  out  through  the  window. 
I  knowed  him  at  oncet.  He  met  me  at  the  door,  and 
squeezed  me  'most  to  death.  And  there  you  was,  sir, 
a-lyin'  there  jest  like  you  was  dead,  and  I  'lowed  we'd 
see  what  might  be  done  to  help  sot  you  up." 

"  I  think  I'll  sit  up  now,"  said  the  concussion  pa- 
tient. "  I'm  feeling  pretty  fair  by  this  time." 

He  sat,  somewhat  weakly  yet,  leaning  against  the 
wall.  He  was  a  rugged  man,  big-boned  and  straight. 
His  eyes,  steady  and  keen,  seemed  to  linger  upon  the 
face  of  the  man  standing  so  still  above  him.  His  look 
wandered  often  from  the  face  he  studied  to  the  mar- 
shal's badge  upon  the  other's  breast. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you'll  be  all  right,"  said  the  old  woman, 
patting  his  arm,  "  if  you  don't  get  to  cuttin'  up  agin, 
and  havin'  folks  shootin*  at  you.  Son  told  me  about 
you,  sir,  while  you  was  layin'  senseless  on  the  floor. 
Don't  you  take  it  as  meddlesome  fer  an  old  woman  with 
a  son  as  big  as  you  to  talk  about  it.  And  you  mustn't 
hold  no  grudge  ag'in'  my  son  for  havin'  to  shoot  at  ye. 
A  officer  has  got  to  take  up  for  the  law  —  it's  his  duty 
—  and  them  that  acts  bad  and  lives  wrong  has  to  suffer. 
Don't  blame  my  son  any,  sir — 'tain't  his  fault.  He's 
always  been  a  good  boy  —  good  when  he  was  growin' 
up,  and  kind  and  'bedient  and  well-behaved.  Won't  you 
let  me  advise  you,  sir,  not  to  do  so  no  more  ?  Be  a  good 
man,  and  leave  liquor  alone  and  live  peaceably  and  godly. 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope          311 

Keep  away  from  bad  company  and  work  honest  and 
sleep  sweet." 

The  black-mittened  hand  of  the  old  pleader  gently 
touched  the  breast  of  the  man  she  addressed.  Very 
earnest  and  candid  her  old,  worn  face  looked.  In  her 
rusty  black  dress  and  antique  bonnet  she  sat,  near  the 
close  of  a  long  life,  and  epitomised  the  experience  of 
the  world.  Still  the  man  to  whom  she  spoke  gazed  above 
her  head,  contemplating  the  silent  son  of  the  old  mother. 

"What  does  the  marshal  say?"  he  asked.  "Does 
he  believe  the  advice  is  good?  Suppose  the  marshal 
speaks  up  and  says  if  the  talk's  all  right  ?  " 

The  tall  man  moved  uneasily.  He  fingered  the  badge 
on  his  breast  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  put  an  arm, 
around  the  old  woman  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  She 
smiled  the  unchanging  mother  smile  of  three-score  years, 
and  patted  his  big  brown  hand  with  her  crooked,  mit- 
tened  fingers  while  her  son  spake. 

"  I  says  this,"  he  said,  looking  squarely  into  the  eyes 
of  the  other  man,  "  that  if  I  was  in  your  place  I'd  fol- 
low it.  If  I  was  a  drunken,  desp'rate  character,  with- 
out shame  or  hope,  I'd  follow  it.  If  I  was  in  your  place 
and  you  was  in  mine  I'd  say :  c  Marshal,  I'm  willin'  tc 
swear  if  you'll  give  me  the  chance  I'll  quit  the  racket. 
I'll  drop  the  tanglefoot  and  the  gun  play,  and  won't 
play  hoss  no  more.  I'll  be  a  good  citizen  and  go  to 
work  and  quit  my  foolishness.  So  help  me  God ! ' 
That's  what  I'd  say  to  you  if  you  was  marshal  and  I 
was  in  your  place.'  " 


812  Heart  of  the  West 

"  Hear  my  son  talkin',"  said  the  old  woman  softly. 
"  Hear  him,  sir.  You  promise  to  be  good  and  he  won't 
do  you  no  harm.  Forty-one  year  ago  his  heart  first 
beat  ag'in'  mine,  and  it's  beat  true  ever  since." 

The  other  man  rose  to  his  feet,  trying  his  limbs  and 
stretching  his  muscles. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  if  you  was  in  my  place  and  said 
that,  and  I  was  marshal,  I'd  say :  '  Go  free,  and  do 
your  best  to  keep  your  promise.' ' 

"  Lawsy ! "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  in  a  sudden 
flutter,  "  ef  I  didn't  clear  forget  that  trunk  of  mine ! 
I  see  a  man  settin'  it  on  the  platform  jest  as  I  seen 
son's  face  in  the  window,  and  it  went  plum  out  of  my 
head.  There's  eight  jars  of  home-made  quince  jam  in 
that  trunk  that  I  made  myself.  I  wouldn't  have  nothin* 
happen  to  them  jars  for  a  red  apple." 

Away  to  the  door  she  trotted,  spry  and  anxious,  and 
then  Calliope  Catesby  spoke  out  to  Buck  Patterson: 

"  I  just  couldn't  help  it,  Buck.  I  seen  her  through 
the  window  a-comin'  in.  She  never  had  heard  a  word 
'bout  my  tough  ways.  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  let 
her  know  I  was  a  worthless  cuss  bein'  hunted  down  by 
the  community.  There  you  was  lyin'  where  my  shot  laid 
you,  like  you  was  dead.  The  idea  struck  me  sudden,  and 
I  just  took  your  badge  off  and  fastened  it  onto  myself, 
and  I  fastened  my  reputation  onto  you.  I  told  her  I 
was  the  marshal  and  you  was  a  holy  terror.  You  can 
take  your  badge  back  now,  Buck." 

With  shaking  fingers  Calliope  began  to  unfasten  the 
disc  of  metal  from  his  shirt. 


The  Reformation  of  Calliope          313 

"Easy  there!"  said  Buck  Patterson.  "You  keep 
that  badge  right  where  it  is,  Calliope  Catesby.  Don't 
you  dare  to  take  it  off  till  the  day  your  mother  leaves 
this  town.  You'll  be  city  marshal  of  Quicksand  as  long 
as  she's  here  to  know  it.  After  I  stir  around  town  a 
bit  and  put  'em  on  I'll  guarantee  that  nobody  won't  give 
the  thing  away  to  her.  And  say,  you  leather-headed, 
rip-roarin',  low-down  son  of  a  locoed  cyclone,  you  follow 
that  advice  she  give  me!  I'm  goin'  to  take  some  of  it 
myself,  too." 

"  Buck,"  said  Calliope  feelingly,  "  ef  I  don't  I  hope 
I  may—" 

«  Shut  up,"  said  Buck.     "  She's  a-comin'  back." 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


AUG13  1994REC'0 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373— 3A.1 


PS2649.P5H41915 


§"2106  00207  9637 


